


home is where you heart is set in stone

by gravitaes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes & Sam Wilson Friendship, Cooking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Possible smut, Slow Burn, characters and tags to be added with each chapter if necessary, most of these chapters will be steve pining and being completely oblivious, yes i know i chose the most cliche name for a flower shop i’m running low on inspiration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25039531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravitaes/pseuds/gravitaes
Summary: slices of life from a non canon universe where bucky moves in with steve in upstate new york, living the suburban life they deserve.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 25
Kudos: 61





	1. rest;

**Author's Note:**

> these will be a collection of ficlets that are recommended to be read chronologically but not really needed! each chapter is named after a word from the song that inspired the title, home by gabrielle aplin. and each chapter has a small description; i haven't decided whether to put the tags in each chapter summary or the whole work. 
> 
> hope you enjoy, i will try to update either every thursday or every other thursday!

Maybe it’s the training he’s been leading for the new SHIELD agents Natasha forced him to do, or maybe it’s the fact that he’s almost a century old, but there’s an ache in the back of Steve's neck that he can’t get rid of. It’s evident on the way home in his SHIELD bought car, to his SHIELD bought apartment. _Stark-bought apartment,_ Tony had corrected him once, and Steve scoffs at the thought of the smug bastard lording over the fact that he’s basically Steve's landlord.

He visited a masseuse before leaving the compound, but the woman had told him that it shouldn’t be hurting as much as Steve feels it is. So maybe it is the fact that he’s getting old, on the inside, burdened by the years that pass and the years that hadn't. He hasn’t talked about it, not to Nat, not even to Sam, but he feels a little older, a little slower than usual. Everything came to close, and now he feels like he’s coming to an end too. like his purpose has dwindled too.

It’s too late for a midlife crisis, Steve thinks. Too late in the night, darkness around him as he steps into his house. It's a modest two bedroom out in a suburb in upstate New York, gated and full of casseroles cooked by overly smiling wives. Still, it’s quiet, and it’s been home for a few years. Not home enough, since it’s hardly furnished, but it’s the kind of home he always wanted to buy for his mother, to get out of the shoebox apartment they lived in when he was a kid. So Steve thinks he can make it work.

Feet heavy on the stairs, Steve almost collapses into sleep just at the mere sight of his bed, but he still smells of sweat so he reluctantly makes his way to the bathroom, rubbing the nape of his neck under the warm spray of the shower. The muscles feel looser after, and he hopes a semi good night’s sleep will ease the pain.

He returns to his room in pyjamas that consist of a shirt depicting a cartoon character he doesn’t know the name of and a pair of gym shorts, tossing the covers aside and slipping under it. His eyelids are heavy as he closes them, exhaling slowly to will the tension in his chest away.

When he opens them again, there’s someone in his room. Instinctively, his hand slams on the lamp switch, but he can already tell who it is, unfortunately familiar to the shadowed silhouette that stands near his wardrobe. “Bucky,” he hisses, running a hand through his hair to still his shaking fingers. “This is the fifth time. This week.”

“Sixth,” Bucky states, standing with his hands behind his back and feet shoulder width apart. A soldier’s stance. He steps forward after being addressed, clad in a black sweater that hides his broad shoulders and the metal of his arm, a glove on his left hand. His hair hangs past his collarbone, neat but still long, strands of raven hair falling past unreadable blue eyes. “You were sleeping yesterday. Didn’t notice me.”

Steve sighs, pushing himself up to a seating position. “You know you have a room, right?” He moved in with Steve a few months back. Steve had brushed up the spare room, unsure of what to furnish it with except for a bed and a dresser near the window. It’d been an awkward first few weeks, save for the house welcoming party Nat insisted they throw for Bucky. Bucky was, surprisingly, hardly ever home when Steve was, and came back with soil on his hands and shoes. He never spoke about it, and Steve never questioned it either. They had an unspoken relationship, startlingly different to the Bucky he knew years, decades ago. Bucky watches Steve make dinner on most nights, but eats little. Steve watches Bucky hang clothes out on a washing line, or retreat into the shed he claims at the back of the garden, sometimes spending nights there.

And Bucky watches him sleep. It started a few weeks after bucky moved in. The first time, Steve had thrown the bedside lamp at him, and Bucky had merely dodged it, leaving as quietly as he entered. It happened a second, then a fourth, then a seventh, and then it was almost every night Steve wasn’t at the compound. Most times Steve would wake in the middle of the night and find Bucky standing near the window, a spectre made of a shadow. Others he would wake promptly at six, like he always did, to find Bucky's shadow on his bed, the man watching the sunrise from Steve's bedroom window. Sometimes Steve would catch him slipping in, and would jump out of bed and glare at him, as if he was a mother catching their kid’s hand in the cookie jar. Those times bucky would show some sort of response, head tilted low as he walked out, almost as if he had his tail between his legs.

“I don’t like it,” Bucky says, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. “It’s too…” The crease deepens, Bucky’s lips moving silently. Steve knew Bucky had trouble finding the words to say. Sam had told him there’d be side effects from not being a puppet of HYDRA anymore, and had suggested this be one of them. The words were there, Sam insisted. He just couldn’t remember how to unscramble them. Bucky shakes his head, and Steve would feel more sympathetic if he wasn’t half crazed from two hours of sleep. He returns to his stance, staring Steve with intent. “I have to be here.”

“Is this about my room? If you want it, you could just ask, Buck.”

“It’s not about the room,” He says, frowning in slight confusion, as if Steve isn’t understanding his words. “I have to be here.”

Steve inhales slowly, trying to clamp down on the burn simmering in his stomach. “Well, I need to sleep. And I can’t do that if you’re standing in the room all the time.”

“You can. You’ve done it many times.”

“I— Okay, what about privacy?”

Bucky squints, leaning forward a little. “Are you referring to pleasuring yourself?”

“Am I—” Steve splutters, feels his skin flush hot. “N-No I’m not referring to...to that! There’s other...I mean, privacy for a man isn’t just about...a-about that!”

“Noted,” Bucky declares, oblivious to Steve's flustered state.

“If it’s noted,” Steve says, clearing his throat. He stops his hand from attempting to fan himself. “Do you think you could stop with the night watch?”

“But i have to—”

“You keep saying that,” Steve grits out, jaw clenched. “But what does that mean?”

Bucky blinks, as if Steve is unable to comprehend something so simple. It unnerves Steve. “Possibility of a threat.”

“I don't need protecting,” Steve mumbles, and yanks the covers back. He stands up, just so he’s not looking up at Bucky. His neck hurts and he has to wake up in three hours and he hasn’t had a good sleep, let alone semi good, for months. And Bucky keeps looking at him like he’s the one in the wrong, so yeah, he’s a little pissed. “And I could handle myself.”

“I have—”

“Bucky, I don’t need you here!” Steve snaps. “If anyone needs protecting, it’s you. You’re the one who needs help, not me. I’m fine. I’m normal.”

He’s close to Bucky, a few inches apart, close enough to see the shift in the blue of Bucky’s eyes, the slight purse of his lips and the twitch of his jaw. Bucky steps back, and Steve's anger disappears in one wave, guilt succumbing in his chest. “i—”

“Noted,” Bucky repeats, tone monotonous. He steps further away, as if he’s shrinking away from Steve, pulling the door open. “Goodnight, Steve.”

Steve feels his heart constrict at the sound of his name. Bucky's hardly used it since he got here, and Steve admits that he’s missed it, missed the smile that always came with it, the hand clapping his shoulder with a laugh. Instead it comes out with a hostility that Steve hates, lingers in the silence as Bucky leaves, smothers his heart.

Steve's out of the room before he can think, eyes darting to the light that spills from the door of Bucky's room. He inches towards it slowly, raising a hand to knock lightly. “Buck? Hey, I’m...I’m sorry.”

There’s a shuffling sound and soft pads on the floor before the door opens, Bucky standing in the doorway. He was too angry then, but Steve registers with some surprise the slight height difference, how Bucky has to tilt his head by a centimetre to meet Steve's eyes, still an unreadable blue. If he's truthful, it scares Steve, but he can’t look away whenever Bucky holds his gaze, always waiting for the other to look away first, always feeling his skin tingle when Bucky does.

“I shouldn't have snapped,” Steve explains, hands fiddling with the strings of his shorts. “And I shouldn’t have said what I said. You don’t need help.”

“Yes I do. Sam says so,” Bucky points out. “And I am not normal.”

“Bucky—”

“But you’re not either,” Bucky adds.

Steve opens his mouth, then lets out a short laugh. “I guess not.”

Bucky's silent for a while, and Steve looks up, startled at the frown on his brow, and the way the blue of his eyes look reflective. Steve wonders if it’s the light, but Bucky’s mumbling something silently, pursing his lips, and Steve realises he is thinking of something to say, and his eyes are thoughtful. It's strange to watch, and a little fascinating, and Steve doesn’t even care how openly he’s staring.

“I remember,” Bucky begins, and Steve blinks rapidly, standing straighter to pay attention. “I remember things. it was winter. You were ill. Sarah...Sarah was worried. Scared that you’d die.”

Steve recalls that winter; he’d been fifteen, and New York had been hit by the coldest winds yet. Steve wasn’t Captain America then, far from it, and he’d caught pneumonia pretty early on, staying in the hospital over Christmas too.

“I was scared,” Bucky says, interrupting Steve's thoughts. “I...Your mother was busy. At work. She couldn’t watch you all the time. So I did. I remember...skipping school. stealing books to read to you. I remember…” Bucky frowns again, biting his lip. Steve tries not to focus on it. “It was at night. You were crying. You told me you didn’t want to die. You didn’t want to leave your mother. You didn’t want...to leave me.”

Steve feels his heart seize, lightheaded. He doesn’t even remember that, lost in the fever that kept him up shivering in the night.

“I promised you. That it wouldn’t happen. That I would protect you. I had to make sure you didn’t fall asleep forever. I have to make sure,” Bucky insists, shoulders hunched forward. “I don’t have to anymore. You don’t need me.”

“That’s not true,” Steve blurts, and he doesn’t realise his hand has grabbed Bucky’s arm, as if Bucky was going to leave. Which is stupid, since he’s not moved at all, and Steve feels his cheeks burn in embarrassment, dropping Bucky’s arm quickly. I need you, he wants to say, but that’s too open, too vulnerable. “I should be the one...who’s watching over you. I should've known about this. I should be a person you can tell these things to, I should...I should be your friend. And I haven’t been at all. I’m sorry. I want you to stay, Buck. I want to try and be better.”

Bucky regards him, and his eyes look a little lost, soft at the edges. Steve feels the need to hug him, and immediately quenches the thought. Bucky's been more emotive in the past hour than he has been in the past few months. He tells himself it’s because of that that his heart clenches when Bucky nods minutely, eyes finding Steve's with flickering earnestness. “Okay. I want you.”

_As a friend_ , Steve tacks on silently, then feels shame about even thinking it needed to be clarified. Steve nods again, stepping backwards. “If you feel more comfortable watching me sleep it’s...I can deal with it. But you should try to sleep as well.”

Bucky's eyes are unreadable again, but he nods to Steve's words, hesitating before he adds, “Goodnight, Steve.”

It’s a different tone, and Steve lifts a hand in return, letting it fall limply when Bucky closes the door. It's a tone that makes Steve feel warm and remember how sleepy he is, loping back to his bed. It's a tone that lets Bucky's voice settle in his bones, a quiet and soft hum of Steve's name that pulls sleep over Steve's body.

He gets the best three hours of sleep he’s ever had.


	2. comfort;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bucky's night habit turns into a sleeping habit.

Steve doesn’t scare easily. So he doesn’t scream when, at half one in the morning, he turns in his sleep and his bleary eyes land on Bucky's figure lying next to him, blue eyes bright in the dark. “Bucky,” he says into the air between them, calm despite being mere inches apart. “Bucky, this is my bed.”

“You said,” Bucky starts, and Steve's sleep-addled mind catches on the gruffness of his voice, cheek pressed against Steve's pillow. “You said that i should watch you or try to sleep.”

Steve closes his eyes briefly, letting out a soft exhale. “I meant to sleep in your own bed.”

“Oh,” Bucky blinks, and it’s hardly a word, but Steve catches the weight of it, as if he never considered that being what Steve meant. He shifts, and Steve feels the bed dip with the movement. Bucky uses one hand to push himself upwards, legs slipping off the mattress. “Understood.”

“Wait,” Steve calls, and his hand on Bucky's arm before he realises. Bucky’s wearing a short sleeved shirt, and Steve’s fingers clasp around cold metal, an eerie silver in the night. He tries not to shiver; Bucky doesn’t show it, but Steve can tell he’s sensitive about the arm, in the way he has grown a habit of tugging his left sleeve repeatedly when wearing long sleeved shirts. Even now, Bucky stiffens minutely when Steve's hand skims the unyielding surface. Steve skirts his hand back, flat against the space Bucky once occupied. “You can...you can stay. If you want to.”

Bucky doesn’t reply, eyes on Steve's hand against the sheets. Steve's chest feels too tight, ready for Bucky to continue out of Steve's room. Instead, he silently slips back under the covers, and Steve inches back as Bucky rests his head on the other pillow, dark hair splayed against the white covers. He’s staring at Steve again, and Steve tries hard not to squirm, at how intense Bucky's gaze is this close, where Steve can observe the shadows brushing Bucky's cheekbone, the slope of his nose, the bow of his lips.

“When do you normally sleep?” Steve asks, mostly to distract his thoughts, but also out of curiosity, since Bucky still spends most of his nights watching Steve, even though Steve had told him he didn’t need to weeks ago.

“I don't,” Bucky answers nonchalantly. He shifts again, breaking eye contact, the blue of them swallowed by the dark of the night. “I didn't need to that much. When I was...who I was.”

Bucky's voice comes out quieter at the end, and Steve takes in the hunch of his shoulders, the tightness of his breath. He usually feels angry, like he always does when he thinks about Bucky being forced to be a tool for HYDRA, but angry more at himself. But he’s tired, so he just feels sad instead, swallowing a lump in his throat. “What about now?”

Bucky shrugs, fingers tracing circles on the duvet that rests halfway up his chest. “I’ve tried. Sometimes it works, but not always. Sleeping means...being at peace. I’m far from that, I think.”

Steve frowns in thought, hand tucked under his own pillow. “I think that’s being too hard. You don’t have to resolve some battle you have with yourself just to get some shut-eye. Falling asleep is...just as natural as breathing. And you do that without thinking all the time. It keeps you alive.”

Bucky doesn’t reply, so Steve inches closer, enough so he can feel Bucky's breath faintly on his nose. “Try closing your eyes, and breathing in and out slowly.”

“You sound like Sam,” Bucky says, a huff through his nose with something that sounds almost like exasperation. Steve shouldn’t smile, and he tries hard not to, lips twitching. He watches Bucky's eyes flutter shut, his shoulders loosen and rise with a breath. He breathes out through his nose, warm air against Steve's face. Steve doesn’t register it, entranced by how just by closing his eyes Bucky looks the most peaceful he’s been, jaw not tense and eyebrows not furrowed. He looks younger, hair falling in his face, and Steve's hand twitches with an urge to tuck the strands behind his ears.

“Is it working?” Steve asks after a few minutes of Bucky just breathing into the silence.

“A little,” Bucky replies. his voice is rougher than usual, and when he opens his eyes they’re slightly unfocused, a bleary blue. “I was...dreaming. Or remembering. We've done this before. When I was different.”

“Uh, yeah,” Steve nods, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “When we were younger you would sleep over, when my mom had night shifts at the hospital.”

“So you wouldn’t be alone.”

“Right,” Steve says. His stomach feels fluttery, and Steve passes it off as needing more sleep. “And we’d share a bed because...well, I only had one, so.” He clears his throat, glad the darkness can mask the red in his cheeks.

Bucky's silent again, and Steve wonders if he’s trying to fall asleep again. Steve closes his own eyes, attempting to get comfortable despite the body lying next to him, warm and smelling faintly of peppermint.

“Steve?”

“Hmm?”

“Can I...can I hold you?”

Steve blinks his eyes open, stifling a yawn. He probably didn’t hear right. “Sorry, what did you say?”

Bucky shifts on his side, fingers still against the duvet. “I remember holding you. To fall asleep. But you were smaller.”

Steve feels a tingle at the bottom of his spine, a buzz in his ears. “Do you...d-do you think it’ll help?”

“I’m not sure. but I want to try, if you’re comfortable.”

Steve takes a deep breath, to steady his breathing. “I told you that I wanted to help. So if this helps, then I’m fine with it—”

Steve breathes in sharply when a hand touches his hip, where his shirt has ridden up and the skin is bare. Bucky flinches, bringing his hands to his face and blowing gently. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Steve says quickly, clearing his throat as his skin feels tickly from the lingering touch. “I was just, um, surprised. Go uh, go ahead.”

Bucky stops, lips left parted open and staring at Steve. His gaze follows his hands, as they place themselves on Steve's side, sliding to the base of his spine and pushing forward. Steve bites down on his lip as he’s pulled closer, knees bumping against Bucky’s thigh, hands trapped between their chests. When he looks up, their foreheads touch, and Bucky's nose skims the side of his cheek, leaving a jagged line of heat under his skin. Steve hasn’t been this close to anyone in a long time, aside from a few hugs from Nat or Tony’s daughter Morgan. He freezes up when they spring up on him, Nat smirking and teasing him about having old man bones, Morgan tickling him until he smiles with her. With Bucky he’s different; his muscles feel slack under Bucky's touch, and his heart slows instead of seizes, settled in the warmth. He finds himself too fascinated to be scared, hands unclenching from fists against Bucky's shirt.

“Are you...are you comfortable?” Bucky asks, and this time Steve can feel the rumble of his voice from his chest. Steve meets his eyes, a deep blue of concern. It makes Steve's heart skip in its steady pace, and he has to close his eyes briefly to will it stop.

“Yeah I'm…” Steve flushes at the pitch of his voice, high and strained. “I’m okay.”

“Okay,” Bucky echoes, voice a little quieter when he adds, “You can hold me too, if you want.”

Steve nods jerkily, tentative hands lifting from Bucky’s chest and circling his arms to rest in the middle of Bucky's back. He can feel his muscles under the fabric, taut and coiled, ready to roll out of bed. ready to run. He frowns, and slowly, his hands start to rub circles in Bucky's back, who stiffens under the touch. “Steve?”

“You’re too tense to fall asleep,” Steve mumbles, ducking his head into Bucky's chest so as not to meet his eye. Bucky doesn’t reply, and Steve exhales, hands pressing gently into the globes of his shoulders.

“I didn’t want to be alone.”

Bucky's voice is muffled, and Steve feels his lips in his hair, at the top of his head, heat dispersing from his forehead to the rest of his body. “When we were younger,” he continues, hands falling at Steve's hips limply. “You...helped me feel not alone.”

Steve closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. It feels as if his heart is expanding, not his lungs, with the air he breathes, that smells of Bucky’s minty scent and echoes with the heavy thud of his heart under his shirt. Steve finally looks up, to search in Bucky's eyes for the meaning of his words. But they’re closed, and by the shallowness of his breath Steve deduces Bucky’s halfway asleep, bottom lip sucking in with each breath. Steve watches him, hands still moving in circles, until his own eyes close, and the image of Bucky floats behind his eyelids as he falls out of consciousness.

It's half six when Steve wakes, his body instinctively stirring him from slumber. Confusion whirls in his foggy mind at the feeling of being too warm, and he blinks at the arm slung over his side, silver glowing in the shafts of sunlight. Bucky, he remembers, and the feel of him comes all at once, the tangle of legs under the duvet, one hand on his hip, the other intertwined in his hair. Steve's own are clasped behind Bucky's back, dipping and rising with each breath.

Steve looks up, blinking hard. Bucky's still asleep, and Steve feels frozen at the sight before him. His cheeks are flushed from sleep, a pink that seeps from his cheeks down to his collarbone, dark hair sticking to skin. His lips are parted slightly, and as Steve slips his arm from underneath bucky they move slowly, a mumble of words spilling out before Bucky’s rubbing his head against the pillow, pressing closer to Steve. He looks peaceful, and so much like Bucky that Steve forgets they’re in a two bedroomed house in Upstate New York, and not waking up to the Brooklyn skyline casting shadows on the lumpy mattress they used to share. He forgets he’s not that skinny seventeen year old with limbs too frail for his huge and unwavering heart.

“Bucky,” Steve whispers, hand coming to nudge Bucky's shoulder. “Bucky, I...I gotta get up.”

Bucky lets out a noise, and Steve feels his heart clench as it comes out more of a whine, soft and petulant. His eyes do open though, and Steve remembers his favourite parts of the morning when he was young: the smell of his mother cooking breakfast seeping through the crack in the door, the shafts of sunlight catching on dust motes, and that bleary eyed blueness that always find him first, always followed by a crooked smile and ruffle of hair. Bucky now just blinks, and Steve feels his legs stretch against his own. “Steve,” he says, and that’s still the same, the same scratchy morning voice that floods Steve with terrifying yearning.

“I uh,” Steve starts, heart hammering in his throat. “I’ve gotta meet Nat in a few hours. I just wanted you to know in case you woke up wondering where I was.”

Bucky hums, stifling a yawn, and Steve tries not to watch the way his nose scrunches in effort, licking his lips after. “I don't…” Steve begins, hands away from Bucky's body so he doesn’t feel them trembling. “I don’t want you to feel alone, either. So if...I wouldn’t mind if you...if you wanted help sleeping again.”

“Noted,” bucky mumbles, hands leaving Steve's hair. He rolls onto his back, eyes fluttering shut. “Have fun...with Natalia.”

Steve sits up with a dizzy head, glancing at Bucky who starts to doze off again. Something warm bursts in his chest, and he fights to clamp it down, to stop himself from reaching forward to touch one more time. He gets out of bed, his spine and the nape of his neck still tingling. When he reaches the door on the way to the bathroom he looks back once, at Bucky who’s rolled over to Steve's pillow, metal hand tucked under and the other pulling the duvet close to his chest.

 _Fuck_ , Steve thinks, closing the door quietly. He really hopes this isn’t something he’ll regret later.


	3. sharp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not like Steve is jealous of Sam. He’s just...curious as to why Bucky’s spending so time with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no idea how fantasy football works.
> 
> (also i haven't updated this in a while because my laptop broke in august and when i fixed it i never got time to update because i was super stressed over uni. i'm sorting things out now, but i have a lot of chapters in draft so never fear! i will try to update semi-regularly!!)

It’s not weird that Steve returns from the grocery store to Sam's car in the driveway. The man is always dropping by, and has a second key, a fact Steve stumbled upon when he went downstairs one afternoon from a shower to Sam on his back in the kitchen and fixing the sink. Surprisingly, the key was from Natasha, but Sam hadn’t given any other information than that. 

What is weird, is that when Steve closes the front door he can hear laughter. Two sets of laughter, and when he rounds the corner he sees the source of it. Sitting on the couch is Sam, reclining against grey pillows as he leans into Bucky’s shoulder, looking down at a phone screen. Bucky also peers down, and Steve almost drops the bags in surprise when a rumbling sound falls from his lips, one that strangely resembles a laugh. He’s not in black either, which is even more jarring, shoulders snug in a red sweater and dark blue jeans. 

“Steve!” Sam exclaims, waving his phone as a greeting.

Snapping his gaping mouth shut, Steve musters a smile, shuffling into the kitchen area and dumping the groceries on the island counter. “Hey, Sam. Didn’t uh, know you were gonna be making a house call.”

“Well, actually Bucky called me over,” Sam explains, clapping the other on the back. “Said he needed help setting up some apps on his phone.” Sam grins. “The dude’s obsessed with it.”

Bucky shrugs, pushing a hand through his hair. “I like the filters.”

Sam snorts. “That’s an understatement. We’ve just spent the better part of an hour taking pics.”

“Selfies,” Bucky corrects him.

Sam rolls his eyes, shaking his head and giving a look to Steve that says ‘Can you believe this guy?’. Steve frowns, unloading the bags onto the counter. “I didn’t know you had a phone, Bucky.”

“Really? We got it together days ago. That was the day we found that great pastrami restaurant, right James?”

Steve expects Bucky to correct Sam immediately, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. Bucky just shakes his head, eyes on his phone. “Pastrami restaurant was found two weeks ago. We bought the phone last weekend. Same day of meeting Sophie .”

“That’s right!” Sam snaps his fingers, clutching his hands together in a gesture of gratitude. “Steve, when I tell you this guy’s the best wingman, I mean it. Here we were, standing outside the store with his new phone, and a lady came up to him asking for his number. He goes, ‘Sure, I'll give you my friend’s number since I don’t know mine’. Now I'm bringing her to Nat’s party on Friday.” Sam nudges Bucky’s shoulder again. “I don’t know how to thank you, James .”

“You did,” Bucky informs. “With pastrami.”

Steve watches Sam laugh, how Bucky appears pleased at the noise, lips twitching upwards. Something twists in his stomach, and he busies himself with packing the groceries away, nodding along as Sam continues to ramble. Bucky seems undeterred, adding one line answers to the flow and twirling his phone in his fingers.

“You gonna stay for dinner, Sam?” Steve interrupts, and winces at how loud his voice sounds.

Sam looks apologetic, eyes darting between Steve and Bucky. “Sorry, man. But we promised we’d go down to the centre to watch a game.”

Steve raises an eyebrow, glancing at Bucky. “We?”

“Yeah, me and Bucky have got into this fantasy football game, with some of the old timers at the community rec. They’ve got a whole board and TV screen set up, all very serious. Winner gets an 80 dollar grocery coupon. James here is very competitive.”

Bucky huffs, catching Steve’s eye. “Do you want to come?” he asks, blue eyes burning into Steve's gaze.

Steve shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “It seems like you guys are...really into it. I don't wanna intrude. It’s fine, really. I could use the peace and quiet.”

Sam shrugs, jumping to his feet. “Alright. We better get going if we wanna buy some snacks beforehand. Hey, I'll see you at Nat’s party, yeah?”

“Can’t wait to meet Sophie,” Steve smiles, and Sam grins, spinning his keys in his hands. 

Bucky stands, hands at his side as he follows after Sam. He stops before the corner to look at Steve, who tries to give him his best reassuring smile. “You’ll be okay?”

“Yeah, Buck, I'll be—”

“Come on, James, those pretzels aren’t gonna buy themselves!”

Steve waves Bucky off with a grin, who ducks his head and disappears, feet heavy against the linoleum. “I hate pretzels,” he hears Bucky mutter, before the door swings shut, echoing into silence.

He makes himself busy, switching on the TV and starting up a stir fry to fill the silence. Steve cracks open a window, the night sky staring back at him, and pushes up his sleeves, sliding chopped vegetables into a pan. He's distracting himself, from thinking about what just occurred, and he shouldn’t need to. It’s not a big deal that Bucky’s friends with Sam. He knows that Bucky’s been attending sessions at the VA. And he knows that Bucky spends more time out of the house lately, which is fine. Steve does too, but then again, Steve has a job at the New Avengers Facility. Bucky's gone for hours at a time, and Steve now wonders if he spends those hours with Sam, buying phones and picking up girls with pastrami and having fun with fantasy football. Without Steve. 

Steve sighs, scraping the sizzling pan of food on a plate and settling on the sofa. He’s not stupid, or deaf; he was there when Sam and the counsellors told him that Bucky would be different, he wouldn’t be the same person Steve used to know. The person who was Steve's best friend. But Steve knows that they were more than that, they always were, and maybe he thought somewhere inside this new Bucky he would know that too. And he had thought it was happening, what with Bucky staying in his room and how they’d spend a few evenings, with Bucky watching Steve cook and Steve letting Bucky choose a movie for them to watch over dinner, Steve humming in agreement as Bucky made notes on the plot. Steve liked those dinners, and as he scrolls through channels he realises watching a film without Bucky would be pointless, without the shuffling weight next him, without his voice trying to be quiet over the tv, without him leaning forward with a transfixed look on his face, intent on absorbing every detail.

Steve finds himself smiling, then shakes his head, cheeks burning as if being caught doing something he shouldn’t have. It's good that Bucky's making progress, making friends. Without Steve. Which shouldn’t be important, Steve insists, swallowing his bites hard, eyes fixed on the screen. Bucky’s moving on, and that’s what’s more important. Steve has no right to feel jealous.

— 

“And I'm not,” Steve finishes, leaning against the counter of the mini bar. It's Friday evening in Nat's penthouse, a few good miles from the heart of New York City but close enough to feel a frenzied buzz in the air, the lounge filled with people who laugh behind glasses of wine and champagne. Natasha, the host herself, is sat on a stool opposite to Steve, head tilted on one hand with her red curls brushing her bare back, a sleeveless black dress hugging her figure. She looks lovely, and smiles wide at guests that greet her, eyes dimming when they reach Steve again.

Natasha sighs, bringing a glass of scotch to her lips. “Uh huh,” she nods, for the umpteenth time this evening. They've been sitting at the bar for a while, and she shifts in her seat impatiently. “You are definitely not jealous, despite the fact you’ve been talking my ear off for half an hour about how much time Bucky's not been spending with you.”

“It’s strange,” Steve insists, glancing at where the pair stand. A brunette has her arm linked with Sam's, eyes sharp and bright with each laugh. Sam had introduced her to him when they entered, but Steve had been so focused on the fact that Bucky had arrived with Sam, and not him, only managing a mumble of a greeting before excusing himself to search for Natasha. Steve had felt bad, but looking over at the trio, it seemed that none of them really missed his presence, and he felt something sour curl as Bucky smiles at Sam laughing. “They weren’t the best of friends when they first met, and now they’re practically joined at the hip. It’s uncanny.”

“Steve, I'm gonna get straight to the point since I have a hundred other guests to attend to,” Nat interrupts, hand reaching for Steve's. “Sam's not gonna replace you. You…” she sighs, chewing her lip. “James wasn’t supposed to stay with you, you know.”

Steve frowns. “What do you mean?”

“The counsellors at SHIELD had said he should stay at the compound for longer. A few months, maybe till the end of the year. Maybe longer. But he insisted that he’d live with you, so Sam pulled a few strings.”

Steve opens his mouth, then closes it, heat flooding his skin and filling his cheeks. “Oh.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, hopping off her stool. “James is different. And so are you. Maybe he thought you replaced him after all this time.”

“I wouldn't,” Steve snaps, then ducks his head at the bite in his words. “I-I mean he’s...he’s irreplaceable.” Steve sighs, rubbing his forehead. That wasn’t better either.

“I know you’re shit at communicating your feelings, but if it helps,” Nat starts, placing her hand on Steve's shoulder. “You've got nothing to worry about. He doesn’t look at you the way he looks at Sam.”

Steve frowns, turning to Nat. “What does that mean?” She’s brushing past him with a wink, twirling a whiskey glass in her hands. “Natasha?”

He doesn’t catch her again, as she slips between crowds, so Steve sits at the bar by himself, unease in his gut. A few familiar faces stop by and strike conversation, but Steve can’t get himself into it, nodding and smiling a beat too late. They seem to notice to, and he’s not particularly fond of their quizzing stares so he excuses himself, pushing off the stool in search of a bathroom. The hallway is quieter, a few stragglers walking past, and as Steve rounds the corner he walks on a couple pressed against the wall, who scuttle off into another room. He's so rattled by them that he almost doesn’t notice Bucky.  
The other man is standing near a floor length window, arms crossed over his chest, stiff in his stance. The hall is dark, save for the lights shining through the glass, and Bucky looks sharp around his edges, even more so dressed up, muscles hidden under a black suit, hair styled back to expose his forehead. He’s watching something behind the glass, but his eyes snap quickly to meet Steve's, shoulders relaxing. 

“Too many people,” Bucky explains, nodding his head to the direction of the sound of the party continuing without him, muted with distance. He ducks his head, clutching himself tighter. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Steve says softly, taking a step forward. His hand reaches out, but he doesn’t know what for, and is slightly scared to touch, so it falls back to his side. “I get like that too, sometimes.”

Bucky nods, but his eyes still look downcast. “I don't want to disappoint Natasha. Or Sam. He's happy with Sophie.”

“They don’t mind. And they wouldn’t mind if you wanted to leave early,” Steve reassures him.

“Can we?” Bucky asks quickly, and Steve feels that familiar clenching knot he always gets when Bucky looks at him like that, eyes too wide and open. “Can we leave?”

“Yeah,” Steve finds himself saying, and this time he does reach out, just to brush his fingers along Bucky's bicep, resting on his elbow. Bucky exhales, and Steve presses his fingers gently before letting go, skin tingling. “I'll text Nat about it later.”

They take the elevator down in silence, and once they get in Steve's car Bucky rests his head against the window, closing his eyes with a low hum. Steve glances at him, turning the key in ignition and concentrating on the rumble of the engine under him and not how much he wants to hold Bucky’s hand which lies in his lap. He taps the steering wheel as they turn out of the parking lot, and Steve clears his throat. “You and Sam are...are pretty close now. I’m glad though,” he adds quickly, a burn on his cheeks. “That you’re good friends.”

Bucky turns his head to look at Steve, and Steve glances at him once to catch the blue in his eyes, the way the street lights wash Bucky's skin in an ethereal glow, brushing down to his collarbones. “You’re jealous.”

Steve coughs, gripping the wheel. “No, I—”

“You don’t need to worry. Sam is still your best friend," Bucky continues, and turns before he can see the way Steve's shoulders slump in relief.

“Right. Sam. yeah, I-I...I know,” Steve stammers. “But I don’t mind you spending time with him. It’s good that you’re making friends.”

“I am.”

“Good,” Steve says firmly, and glances at Bucky with a small smile before turning back to the road. He leaves Bucky to close his eyes against the window, shoulders rising with each breath in the corner of Steve's eye. He steals glances at red lights, scarlet shining on Bucky’s lips that suck in with every inhale. Steve sighs, biting hard on his lip, and he doesn’t look back again, not until they reach their driveway and the clenching feeling in his stomach has subsided.

Bucky wakes once the ignition turns off, stretching his legs as he yawns. It's a low and deep rumble, but it’s a sound that pleases Steve. At the beginning, Bucky hardly ever slept, and Steve wonders if it’s because of what Nat told him, of how he should’ve stayed in the compound to be supervised. He watches Bucky rub his eyes and step out of the car, shaking his muscles as he stands. Steve turns to do the same, but not before catching the shine of something left on Bucky's seat. It’s his phone, and Steve sighs, grabbing it to give back to Bucky. The screen lights as Steve opens his door, and he looks down instinctively.

Steve blinks. And blinks again. Bucky's display screen shows the time in large font, with a small weather icon next to the last number. The display picture is of Steve. Steve recognises the setting of his living room, recognises the navy knit sweater he regularly wears, recognises his grey slippers. He's sitting on the sofa, head lowered and eyes focused on a book that Steve finished a week ago. Steve remembers how he hadn’t showered at the time, by the five o clock shadow he sports, and the mussiness of his hair. None of that is decipherable, because there’s some sort of filter over it, that makes his skin glow and his lips darken pink. The filter gives him cartoon dog ears and a button nose, childishly scribbled on with a tail hanging near his crossed legs. it’s comical, and cute, and Steve shuts the phone off with the thought, heart hammering.

He catches up with Bucky who fumbles with his keys, and holds up the phone to him. “You left this in the car,” Steve explains, and blames his breathlessness on how he just jogged up the stairs to the porch. Bucky takes the phone with a nod, and Steve opens the door for him. Bucky steps around him to get inside, and Steve can smell his cologne, a warm woodsy smell that’s sharpened by his familiar minty musk.

He walks behind Bucky, who slips his jacket off and stands at the edge of the kitchen, glancing at the fridge. “Are there any leftovers?” he asks, and Steve nods, circling around him to open the fridge. He pulls out a tupperware box of quiche, and Bucky nods, picking a stray cushion and sitting on the sofa to place it back.

The microwave is humming as Bucky switches the TV on, words garbled as he skips through channels. Steve splits the quiche into two plates, grabbing cutlery and heading to the other side of the couch, placing the plates on the coffee table in front. He reclines on the sofa, pointing when he sees something familiar. “I watched this film with nat a few months ago. It’s pretty good.”

Bucky nods, and leaves the remote on the table, picking up his plate. He turns to Steve, and Steve only realises a few minutes in the film that Bucky’s still staring, fork resting on porcelain. Steve frowns, skin tingling under scrutiny. “Something wrong?”

“No,” Bucky replies, adjusting his grip on his fork. “I just like this moment.”

Steve swallows quickly, holding Bucky's gaze. “What do you mean?”

“With Sam, he’s always meeting new people. And I get to meet new people too, and talk to them, and it helps. It helps up here,” Bucky explains, tapping the side of his head. “But I like this the most. With people, I'm thinking all the time. Which is good, but it gets...tiring. But here, it’s just us. I don’t need to think much. It helps here.” Bucky points to his heart, and Steve feels his own stutter in its pace, air warm and buzzing in his ears. 

“Oh,” is all Steve can say, and he tries to form words again, but nothing comes out.

Bucky nods, and he turns back to the TV. Through the glow of the screen Steve can make out a small curve in his lip that causes a short and shaky sigh to leave Steve’s lips. He’s still staring, at the space in Bucky’s chest where he tapped his fingers, a knot of desire stretching around his chest, to press against that space and hear the hum of Bucky's heart, and he wonders how much of himself is in there, nestled between Bucky's ribs. How much of a home Bucky has made of Steve. And how much of Bucky is in his own heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope everyone had a good halloween, stay safe guys!!


	4. wishing;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an encounter in a grocery store leads to some unfortunate envy for steve.

It’s too late for a Wednesday, too late for Steve to be grocery shopping, but there’s nothing in the fridge for tomorrow except for some half eaten leftovers, so here he is. He’d made a list before he went, and had planned a route through the aisles that would ensure him leaving earlier than necessary. All of his organisation is going down the drain however, and Steve holds back a sigh as a hand steers the trolley towards the cereal aisle and not the frozen meats.

Bucky pulls it along, peering at the different boxes of breakfast foods intently. He had offered to help Steve with the grocery run, and Steve had agreed at the time, needing an extra pair of hands. In truth, he hadn’t spent much time with Bucky for the past week, and he was glad they could, even for something trivial. Steve regretted his wishes the second they stepped in the supermarket; Bucky ignores Steve's gentle reminders of his list, insistent on rolling down each aisle and picking the most random things. Steve's had to gingerly remove two jars of radishes, travel mints, a multipack of pork scratchings, and a bottle of hot sauce which had a mildly disturbing green colour. 

They've only got half of the items Steve needed as they near the tills, and Steve reluctantly makes a mental note to stop by here after work tomorrow. Steve gives Bucky a deadpan stare, who’s eyeing the confectionery corner near the exit. “Bucky, don’t—”

But he’s already gone, reaching for a paper bag and shovelling brightly coloured candies inside. Steve winces as a couple nearby watch Bucky with mild confusion, and he tries to signal Bucky to return to his side, like an untrained and rather overgrown puppy. Bucky doesn’t notice him, untangling strawberry laces with his fingers. There's a young girl next to him with her own bag, pushing her bangs out of her face as she tries to reach the highest row of sweets. Bucky glances at her before reaching for the spade, lowering it heaped with chocolate buttons. The young girl opens her bag excitedly, smiling shyly before rushing back to her parents, who ruffle her hair and nod at Bucky with gratitude. 

Steve hears a cough near him, and he looks up to the cashier waiting behind the empty conveyor belt before him, the previous customers long gone. He feels the stupidly large grin he’s wearing from watching Bucky, and ducks his head apologetically, skin burning in embarrassment. He loads his shopping quickly, careful not to jump as a hand reaches over him to place the boxes of cereal down. Bucky stands behind him, meeting Steve's eye before placing his bag of sweets at the end of the line. 

“You can’t keep running off, you know,” Steve says gently, as he wheels his trolley into the parking lot. “You could get lost.”

Bucky scrunches his nose and frowns. Steve tries not to stare. “I'm not a child,” he states, and pulls out another gummy worm from his bag, popping it into a mouth.

Steve thinks of last week, when he’d taken Bucky to buy new clothes for himself at the mall, and how Bucky had left the store while trying on clothes to check the candy floss stand below. Steve had to apologise profusely to the attendants on the shop floor, dragging a sticky fingered Bucky back to change out of the clothes. He's about to remind him, but Bucky's running off again, towards a car further down near the exit. Steve is about to shout after him when he watches Bucky catch a few tin cans that have rolled out of a woman’s split bag, sweeping them up in one arm. 

The woman stands near the open trunk of the car, balancing the rest of her bags. From afar Steve can hear her rapid stream of apologies, and Bucky shakes his head, placing the tin cans in the car and offering to do the rest with her bags. the woman leans against her car as he does, running a hand through her blonde locks, gaze flickering over Bucky’s figure. When he straightens she touches her arm and leans forward with a huge smile, thanking him over and over. Bucky’s back is turned, so Steve can’t see his reaction, but he’s surprised when Bucky doesn’t pull away as she trails her fingers up Bucky's bicep, squeezing softly. even more so when she pulls a pen from the back pocket of her jeans, pushing his sleeve up to write something on his arm. She closes her trunk door and waves him goodbye as he steps back, hips swaying purposefully as she goes. 

Bucky turns to jog back to Steve, gripping the trolley cart and pulling it to their own car. Steve glances at Bucky's arm. “What was her deal?”

“She gave me her number,” Bucky replies, and Steve raises his eyebrows at how nonchalant he is, loading the car with each bag. “She said normally guys would just leave her be, or ridicule her. She offered to buy me drinks.”

“Are you going to call her?” Steve asks, busying himself with turning the keys into the lock and slipping into the driver’s seat.

Bucky enters the car with a quizzical look. “I don't drink,” he says simply, and leans forward to switch the radio on.

Steve doesn’t badger him further, intent on getting home for enough sleep before the morning drills at the compound. Bucky's blunt answer puts an end to him thinking about it later on, disappearing to the back of his mind. 

…

Except he can’t put it in the back of his mind, because the next morning he wakes up, and spends the duration of making coffee standing near the window and trying not to stare. Bucky’s outside, probably coming back from a run, with sweat sticking to his long sleeved shirt and tracksuit pants clinging to his legs. Steve’s staring, and not because of the usual heart stuttering reason, but because there are two women who Steve previously watched spring from their porch to meet Bucky at the front of his driveway, and are now giggling at something Bucky says. They’re typical housewives, one rubbing at her pearls and the other twirling her pepper blonde hair between her fingers, but they’re both looking up at Bucky with blatant admiration. Steve feels something twist in his stomach, hot and uncomfortable.

It snaps, or rather his coffee mug does, shattering in his white knuckled grasp. Steve burns in embarrassment, and is scooping the broken shards into the trashcan when Bucky enters, nodding down at Steve and heading to the fridge.

  
Steve straightens, clearing his throat as he brushes his hands on his trousers. “Those two women looked very friendly,” He starts, tamping down on the curiosity in his tone.

“They were,” Bucky hums, filling a bowl to the brim with Frosties. Steve winces as he adds two spoons of sugar as well. “They asked if I could look at their lawn mower some time in the afternoon.”

“Looks like they want you to do more than look than their lawnmower,” Steve mutters, then blushes as Bucky stares at him, expression unreadable.

“She just said her lawnmower,” Bucky repeats, so matter of factly that Steve feels his cheeks pink a little. He should be used to how straight forward Bucky is, with his short blunt answers and his unblinking blue eyes. But all Steve can remember is the Bucky before, the one who was used to flirting and used to flirt back, all slow and syrupy smiles and his voice low in a girl’s ear, fingers always reaching to touch her skin, tucking a single lock of her hair behind her ear. Steve used to be envious of him, of how easy he could charm strangers into a conversation, a dance, a walk to an empty alley if the night was good. 

The Bucky now is completely oblivious to all that, and Steve becomes more aware of how much as the moments continue. There's a delivery girl with pizza when Steve's too tired to make dinner, who chats with Bucky as he hands her the money, blushing when he overtips her for working so late. Steve is stretched on the sofa throughout the whole thing, trying to work out the knot in his stomach from sitting so uncomfortably. He hears the girl ask if Bucky wants her number. “We don't usually eat takeout,” is Bucky's reply, and he’s closing the door behind her, turning back to the living room. The knot in Steve's stomach disappears as Bucky slides the pizza box on the coffee table, heading for the kitchen wordlessly for drinks.

There's also the real estate agent with the open house at the end of their road, and according to Sam a lot of the girls at the VA center have started picking up their dads from there just to get a glimpse of him. A few guys too, which isn’t unusual; Steve always had an inkling bucky was bisexual, from the way he used to watch the boys at the docks from Steve’s balcony, cigarette curling around his lips. What was unusual, Sam had said, was how clueless Bucky was to all their advances, ranging from subtle to plain direct. “Either way,” Sam shrugged when relaying the information to Steve. “They all dig it. They think it makes him more mysterious.”

Steve brings it up once, fiddling with the pages of his book as Bucky slips into his bed at night, his own bed untouched for what feels like forever. “Do you remember a girl called Lou Ann? She used to work at the salon near the park, and you used to be sweet on her.”

Bucky hums, turning to lie on his back. “Until I slept with her sister.”

“Right,” Steve snorts, running his finger up and down the page. “You were a real lady killer, you know. Now, though...it seems like you’ve lost your touch.”

Bucky's silent, staring at the ceiling, and Steve thinks he’s offended him. Instead he turns to face steve, lips twitching upwards. “I’m getting old.”

Steve exhales softly, allowing his own grin to form. “Yeah, I know. Don’t you...wanna get back out there, though? Sam says there’s plenty of guys and gals interested in you.”

“Do you want me to?” Bucky asks, voice muffled against the pillow.

Steve hesitates, biting his lip hard. “I just want...I want you to know that after everything, you’re entitled to a normal life, like meeting people, dating. I want you to have that.”

Bucky's quiet again, eyes lowered as he pulls the duvet up to his shoulder. It makes him look smaller than he is, hair fluffed out on his pillow. “Okay,” Bucky replies, eyes flitting to meet Steve's. “You should have a normal life too. Captain America deserves to get the girl.”

Steve worries his lip against his teeth, heart jittering in his chest. Now's a better time than any, he thinks, placing the book on the bedside table and sliding down so he’s lying flat. It’s his turn to look up at the ceiling, eyes fluttering shut briefly before he mumbles, “Bucky I’m...I’m gay.”

“Oh,” he hears Bucky mumble, a huff of his breath near Steve's shoulder. “Get the guy, then.”

Steve glances at Bucky, jumping a little as Bucky stares at him, eyes shadowed with amber from the lamp behind him. “You’re okay with this?”

“As long as you are. I'm not a hypocrite,” he says firmly. “How long have you known?”

“Just a few years,” is what he says. What he doesn’t say is a few years is a few decades, a century even, since the moment the blue eyes looking back at him made him feel like something bigger and brighter than the skinny sickly kid he was.

Bucky hums again, and Steve jumps again at the arm slung over his waist and the warmth pressing against him, an indication of no further comments from Bucky as he starts to fall asleep.

They don’t talk about their conversation the next day, and Steve lets it fall to the back of his mind. He thinks he gave Bucky peace of mind, so that he could entertain the idea of dating someone. Steve feels satisfied, or he should be, instead of running the image of Bucky acquiescing to someone’s flirting, maybe even flirting back. Steve hates how his stomach curls at the thought of Bucky bringing someone home, and tries to busy himself, taking longer shifts at the compound. He finds himself coming home with a bated breath, always exhaling too loud when he finds Bucky asleep in his room or on the couch, alone. He hates himself after, for that single second of relief.

He also picks up learning new recipes, and attempting to coax Bucky into helping him in the kitchen. Bucky still refuses, and Steve tries not to show that he’s concerned over Bucky still not trusting himself with knives, having to lock the drawers under Bucky's stern stare. Bucky must notice Steve's discomfort, as he offers to help with the grocery shopping again. Steve agrees, knowing that Bucky wants to make himself useful, and also knowing if he didn’t Bucky would give him his kicked puppy look, that always resides behind Steve's eyelids for the rest of the day.

Bucky is surprisingly more obedient this time, bending down and scrutinising each tray to pick the best vegetables. Steve lets him head to the frozen meats section on his own, knowing that there are shelves of cereal on the way that Bucky likes to pick out. He handles the milk and other dairy products before turning the trolley to meet Bucky. As he nears the aisle he hears the sound of shrill laughter, and he turns the corner to Bucky standing further down, one hand wrapped around two boxes of froot loops, the other clutching two packs of steak. A woman stands close to him, hand on his arm, and Steve notices it’s the same woman that Bucky helped before. She’s twirling her hair with one hand, and tugging her shirt down to push out her cleavage as she talks. Bucky shifts in his stance, and it’s miniscule, but he can see the way Bucky's eyes flit to the sides, his jaw and shoulders tense. 

“You know, you never called me,” she says in a sing-song voice, pushing her chest up. Steve cringes in second hand embarrassment. 

“It...must have washed off,” Bucky mumbles, shifting again to balance the cereal boxes on his hip.

“Well...what do you say if I write it down again? I didn't get a good feel of those muscles last time,” she purrs, her words churning gravel in Steve's stomach. He clenches the trolley tight, taking a deep breath before striding forward, stopping in between them.

“Here you are,” Steve smiles, relief coursing in his voice. “I was looking all over for you, baby.”

He leans against Bucky's side, hand placed on the other side of his waist as he grins at the girl, her mouth open in shock. "He is such a sweetheart, making my favourite meal for our sixth anniversary, can you believe it's been that long?" 

Steve's heart is in his throat, and he's scared Bucky won't get it, will stiffen and jump out of his grasp. Instead, the other pulls Steve tighter, and his eyes soften as they look at Steve. "Anything for the love of my life."

It doesn't help with Steve's heart situation, but the girl blushes deeply, coughing. "I-I didn't know that you were–" 

"We'd better get going, babe, if we wanna make the most of this night," Steve interrupts, patting Bucky's chest before giving the girl a simpering smile. "Well, it was nice bumping into you!" 

"Nice," the girl echoes as Steve brushes past her, bucky by his side. Bucky's hand doesn't leave Steve's waist, and Steve feels his lips press against the side of his head. 

"She's watching us go," he mumbles in Steve's hair, and his hand moves to grip the other side of the railing, crowding Steve against his chest and tucking his chin on Steve's shoulder. Steve relaxes against Bucky, trying to steady his breathing as they turn the corner, his heart skipping when Bucky holds the position. He can smell him now, the familiar wood infused with sharp mint, and it takes all of his strength not to lean against him, phantom hands circling him and holding him tight. 

Bucky's hands drop once they near the till, and Steve shakes himself from his daze, trying not to blush under Bucky and the cashier's stare as he fumbles for his card. Bucky takes the trolley towards the exit, Steve falling in step next to him. 

"Sorry about…all that," Steve starts lamely, tapping his fingers to his sides. "I thought you looked uncomfortable with her, so I wanted to help out. If you were interested in her–" 

"I was," Bucky cuts in, and Steve feels the prickle of embarrassment before Bucky adds, "Uncomfortable, I mean. She sort of…sprung herself on me. I didn't know how to say no without hurting her feelings."

Steve smiles, handing the bags to Bucky who puts them in the trunk. "You were like that before, you know. Never knew how to say no to a girl. Or how to break up with her. I remember you spent half the day with Angie Stewarts on the phone trying to call it quits, and only told her just as she was about to fall asleep. She shouted at you for hours on end,``Steve laughs, the sound catching in his throat as Bucky stares at him. 

"I don't remember that." his hands brush his thighs before shutting the trunk. "Sorry."

Steve scratches the back of his burning neck. "Don't be. It's my fault, anyways, bringing it up."

"No," Bucky says, and his hand finds Steve's wrist. "You don't…I don't mind. When you tell me stuff you remember about me. About us." His fingers squeeze at Steve's pulse. "It's...nice."

Steve blinks, into Bucky's eyes that shine with an earnest brighter than the dim lights of the parking lot. It's different from before, when Bucky would hide his true feelings with a glint of a smile that would drive Steve mad. Now, the blue of his eyes is always open, spilling with emotion. Steve likes it a bit too much, warmth trickling in his veins. 

Bucky's eyes drift near his shoulder, frowning in the distance. Steve turns slightly to the woman from before, loading her car as she sneaks glances at them. Bucky sighs, eyes flitting back to steve. "Do you trust me?" 

"Of course," Steve says, and has no time to be startled at how quick his reply was before Bucky is pulling on his hand, spinning him so he leans with his back against the trunk, two hands pressed against the sides of his head. And then— then Bucky’s lips are on his neck, skimming against his skin as he bends against Steve, nosing his collarbone. Steve doesn’t freeze up, despite every beat of his heart telling him to; not when Bucky slides a hand down to rest at his hip, not when the other cards through the hair at the back of Steve's neck. Instead his eyes close, and his body arches slowly into the touch that his skin melts under, exhales running down the front of Bucky's shirt. 

Steve's eyes flutter open, and he watches under hooded eyelashes as the woman hastens into her car, the headlights switching on. Bucky's lips near his ear, and Steve's heart skitters as his teeth nip Steve's earlobe. “Is she gone?” Steve hears bucky say in his ear, and the sound rumbles down Steve's spine.

“N-Not yet,” Steve mumbles between biting his lip hard as bucky hums against his neck. The touch is hardly there, tickling against goosebumps, and it makes Steve feel prickly all over. He’s used to Bucky being this close, used to how light headed it makes him and how his heart races to catch up. He’s not used to this situation, to Bucky’s hand curling against his hipbone and his lips brushing a sensitive spot near his collarbone, sending a tremor of heat across his body. He forces his muscles not to react, smothers a whine in his throat and watches the woman’s car turn out of the parking lot before he taps Bucky's chest, finding his voice. “Okay. We’re clear.”

Bucky exhales, a rush of hot hair on Steve's skin, hand still on Steve's waist as he pulls away. He licks his lips, and Steve's eyes drop to them, which were on his own skin seconds ago. Fleetingly, he wonders if Bucky knows how he tastes, and he looks up, jolting as he realises Bucky's staring at him. At Steve ogling at his lips like a doey eyed schoolgirl, and Steve ducks his head, stepping to the side quickly. “I should um...I’ll start the car. You okay returning the trolley?”

Bucky nods, and Steve is too quick to react to the gesture, turning on his heel and slipping into the driver’s seat with shaking hands. His hand comes to touch the skin of his neck, raised with goosebumps yet warm, fingers trailing down to his collarbone. He catches sight of himself in the overhead mirror, cheeks flushed and eyes trembling with dilated pupils. He snatches his hand away, scrabbling for the keys and twisting it in the ignition. “You’re fine,” Steve says through gritted teeth, leg bouncing as the engine rumbles underneath. “Everything’s fine.”

Bucky enters moments later, and Steve pulls out of the parking lot without a word. Bucky doesn’t turn the radio on, so Steve lets the lights sweeping by distract him, fingers still against the wheel.

“I'm sorry,” Bucky says as they reach a red light. “It’s just...she was there and...I wanted it to look believable.”

“It's fine,” Steve says, and he’s repeated it in his head so many times there’s no trace of a stumble in his words. “And it was believable. Anyone would’ve thought that…” Steve clears his throat, then gives a shrug for an air of nonchalance. “But we aren’t, so. Just a friend helping another.”

“Exactly,” Bucky agrees, and Steve tries not to be disappointed, even angry, that Bucky sounds so unaffected, sitting casually in his seat. “You did help. I...I didn’t really like her. And I don’t want to meet people in that way. I’m not...I’m not as good as talking to people like I was before.” Bucky plays with his fingers, pulling off his glove so that the metal is exposed, glinting under the passing lampposts. “To be with someone is to trust them. I don’t trust most people yet. Except you.”

Steve nods tightly, mustering a smile. “But in a totally different way, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Bucky echoes, and Steve tries not to twitch as Bucky's eyes burn into his side, shoulders slumping as he turns away. “I just mean that I'll probably not be seeing people anytime soon. I’d rather focus on myself for now.”

“That's good, Buck,” Steve says, and he cringes at the relief in his voice. “I mean, for you. It’s good that you’re taking time to do that. Not so good for the girls and guys lining up for you, though.”

Bucky hums, and his lips are twitching again, a small smile on his face. “I guess we’ll be having less casseroles once they get the picture.”

Steve can’t help but laugh, despite the hundreds of other noises in his head. For now, he focuses on the way Bucky’s eyes lift and brighten as Steve laughs, the way his smile stretches, cheeks round and pink. For now he can lock those thoughts to one side, and breathe the air that Bucky breathes, laugh as Bucky laughs. For now he can pretend they’re two people whose hearts beat the same pace and love the same way. Even if it's just a lie.


	5. still;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘steve finds something questionable under bucky’s pillow.’

For all the years Steve spent getting ready for bed alone, his routine seems to fall apart with Bucky, despite them only sharing a bed for a few months. It's daunting, how Steve quickly accommodates the other toothbrush in his bathroom, along with extra showering supplies, the pyjamas folded neatly on Bucky’s side of the bed, which now resided with a familiar and permanent scent of mint and wood. Steve wonders if he should change Bucky's room to something else; the other man hardly uses it, even when Steve stays overnight at the compound. Steve came home once after spending the weekend in New York for a conference at the Stark Tower to Bucky sleeping in Steve’s bed. he never mentioned it to the other, but thought about it every now and then, always followed by a fluttering feeling in his chest and a dopey smile on his lips.

There’s comfort in the presence of another person, and despite Steve insisting to himself it’s only for Bucky, he knows he takes comfort in it too. He’s sitting up in his bed now, the hour hand of the clock on the opposite wall brushing ten, the sound of the shower faint against a closed door. And he’s perfectly content sitting like this, warm not just from the duvet pulled to his waist but everything else too. There’s a flare of fear amidst it all, at the whole thing being too domestic, too warm and close for his heart, but he quashes it down, frowning as he tries to finish the chapter of his book. 

When he does, he places the book on the bedside table to his left, settling on his pillow. There's still a trickle of his past thoughts, heart skittering in nerves. He should be used to it now, at how Bucky pulls Steve towards him. Sometimes they’re connected only by Bucky’s arm around his waist, sometimes Steve nestles against Bucky's chest, selfishly letting himself have these moments in the dark. It's been so long Steve can’t remember how it felt sleeping alone, and yet he still gets that fluttering feeling when Bucky nears him, his drowsy woody scent filling his senses. Bucky doesn’t seem to mind, and Steve hates himself for it, hates how affected he still is over Bucky, after all these years. 

Even now, he’s itching to be held, and he sighs at his desperation, indulging himself by turning to press his nose against Bucky's pillow. The scent is there, and Steve feels his muscles relax as he inhales deeply, warmth stirring in his abdomen. A selfish, stupid part of him wants to roll over onto Bucky’s side and press his body against the mattress, where Bucky does, and imagine the other holding him in a way Steve dangerously craves. The thought instantly fills him with suffocating shame, at how he’d just be taking advantage of Bucky’s need for refuge, not whatever confusing mess Steve has in his heart.

Steve exhales shakily, pulling back to his side of the bed. His hand slips from under Bucky’s pillow, fingers catching on something solid. Steve freezes, hairs standing on the back of his neck. He feels his fingertips press against familiar ridges, and a cold chill trembles down his body. Sitting up again, his fingers slowly clasp around the object, grasping it in a way that’s muscle memory now.

He slides out the gun, heavy in his hand, heavier as the confusion settles in him. It’s a dull black, and blends in the shadows cast on the bed sheets. Steve doesn’t know why it’s here. He doesn’t know how Bucky got it. He doesn’t know if it’s loaded.

And he doesn’t have time to check, because the sound of the shower stops, followed by shuffling around. Steve places the gun gingerly back to where he found it, lying down and staring at the pillow, which had been a source of comfort and a reminder of his temptation only moments ago, now a place of worry. The door of the bathroom opens, and Steve cranes his neck to watch Bucky walk around the bed, metal hand raised and towelling his hair. He's in his pyjamas, the shirt sticking at his damp collarbone. When he sits on his side of the bed, Steve can smell the coconut and vanilla of his shampoo.

Steve closes his eyes, feigning sleep as Bucky shuffles under the covers and switches the bedside lamp off. Behind his eyelids, he can see the gun in his hands, the weight stinging his palms. He opens his eyes, teeth biting hard on his lip as he scans Bucky's features, eyes closed and eyebrows furrowed as he chases sleep.

“Bucky?” Steve whispers.

Bucky blinks his eyes open, and Steve's hand falls onto the space between them. “Steve,” he murmurs, the side of his mouth brushing his pillow. “What is it?”

Steve unlatches his teeth from his lip, licking at the indent on its surface. He exhales once, hand curling into a fist against the bedsheet. “Bucky what...why do you have a gun?”

There’s no reply, just blue eyes staring at him, blank and shadowed. Steve swallows. “I saw it under...under your pillow. Bucky, if you don’t feel safe—”

“It's not that,” Bucky cuts, and Steve tries to repress a shiver at how distant his voice sounds. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing, Buck. It’s a freaking gun. If there’s something you think you have to protect yourself against, let me help. Just tell me—”

“I said it’s nothing, Steve. So drop it.” Bucky's words are distinct now, and they’re cold, his eyes burning with ice. There's a flash of fear though, and Steve can see it despite the darkness, in the way Bucky's lips tremble. He lifts his hand again, as if to pull Bucky closer, but the other turns to face the wall, leaving Steve to stare at the stiffened muscles of his back. Steve's frozen, hand still hovering in mid air, at how much emotion was in Bucky’s face, flooding all at once, and Steve wants to know why, wants to know how to help him, to get rid of that scared look on Bucky's face. Steve squeezes his eyes shut, holding back a shaky sigh. The blue eyes follow him behind his eyelids, the cold of them shirking him away from sleep.

Bucky doesn’t bring up their conversation the next morning; in fact, he acts as if it never happened, greeting Steve with a stiff nod over the kitchen counter at breakfast. Steve watches him for the rest of the day, for any signs of the trembling fear he had witnessed last night, but Bucky’s unreadable, and over the next few days he speaks less to Steve, skulking out of the house or staying holed up in the garden shed for hours on end. Steve gets worried that Bucky’s closing into himself again, and he tries to call Sam. The man’s unreachable, off on another trip with his new girl Sophie. Steve grows restless, agitated how Bucky's drifting further away and how clueless he is on stopping it, at how this is happening just as Steve is stumbling over how close he wants to be with Bucky.

This, however, isn’t what he meant: waking up with Bucky straddling his hips, eyes flashing with fury and two hands gripping Steve's throat.

Steve's heart seizes, his own hands instinctively grasping Bucky's wrists. “Bucky,” Steve rasps, air trapped in his throat. Bucky doesn’t respond, eyes wild and mouth twisted in a snarl so cruel Steve feels goosebumps on his skin. He looks unrecognisable, his hair curling across his cheeks taut with determination, and his eyes are an empty void of blue, so dark they look black. At the sound of his name a growl comes from his throat, and he squeezes tighter, black spots flitting in Steve's vision.

Desperately, Steve pushes a hand on one of Bucky’s knees, so that he stumbles on his side. He brings a knee to Bucky’s chest, rolling from under him as Bucky collapses on his front. He's still growling as Steve attempts to subdue him, pinning his arm behind his back and pressing him down onto the bed. “Bucky, stop!”

“Нет. У меня есть миссия,” Bucky replies monotonously. Steve's spine crawls in horror. I have a mission. 

There's a pain in Steve's wrist, as Bucky reaches behind himself and twists it, using his grip to pull Steve back onto the bed. He pins Steve's hands above his head, hips pressing tight against Steve's side. In a completely different situation, Steve would be feeling something other than fear, but that thought disappears as Bucky's other hand closes around his throat again, stronger than before. Steve's eyes nearly pop out of his head.

“You d-don’t want to do this Buck,” Steve manages to choke out, trying to slide his legs out from under Bucky. He can feel them losing strength, his vision blurry on the edges. “We’re...We’re friends, remember? It’s me, Steve. and I'm n-not going anywhere. I’m here, Buck.”

Steve chokes, and his eyes flutter shut, lolling to the back of his head just as Bucky lets go. His hands are still trapped above his head, but Steve can’t find himself to move, shaking with each breath as he gasps for air. His eyes open to Bucky staring at him, colour returning to his eyes. Slowly, he raises his gun to Steve's forehead, jaw clenched. Steve feels bile rise to his throat, and every inch of his muscles scream to fight Bucky, despite how tired they are from the lack of oxygen. Instead his breathing slows, his body stills. “Bucky,” he starts, voice still raspy. “You don’t have to do this.”

The sound of the safety clicking off is his reply, and Steve swallows as Bucky’s finger curls around the trigger. “Okay,” Steve says, trying to stop his voice from trembling. “It’s okay, Buck. You’re okay. You won’t hurt me, okay?” Steve grits his teeth, blinking fast. “Just please...remember that you didn’t hurt me—”

The gun spins in Bucky's hand, and suddenly the muzzle is facing Bucky, and Steve's hand is being guided to the grip, finger pushed towards the trigger. Steve frowns, looking up at Bucky. “I don’t—”

“сделай это, солдат,” bucky orders. Do it, soldier. He pushes his own forehead towards the gun, metal against skin. 

“No, I’m not gonna— Bucky, I won’t—”

“Steve,” Bucky says, and it’s his voice this time, the cold Russian gone. He says Steve's name like it’s bruised around the edges, a whisper dying in his throat. One hand grasps at Steve's wrist, digging the gun into bucky’s skin. “Please.”

After everything, Steve feels fear now, at how broken and desperate Bucky sounds, at the way he smiles a little sad before closing his eyes. Steve's body burns, blood curdling as it rushes down his body. He's quick to push Bucky’s hand away, and even quicker to bring the butt of the gun down on Bucky's head, knocking him out before he reacts.

Bucky slumps over him, and Steve lets out a noise, cracked and sore with relief. He's shaking as he rolls out from under Bucky and off the bed. The gun is still in hands, and he’s about to throw it across the room before he remembers the safety is still off. Clicking it back on, he takes it with him to the bathroom, leaving it on the side as he splashes his face with cold water. In the mirror, a wild eyed, trembling version of himself looks back at him, eyelashes damp and cheeks red. There are angry lines across his neck, and Steve winces as his fingers brush against them, the skin there sore and beginning to swell.

Bucky’s eyes, black and unyielding, flash behind him in the mirror, and Steve turns away, leaning against the sink and breathing heavily. He was less scared of those than the startling clear blue of Bucky's eyes when he grabbed the gun and told Steve...he told him to…

Steve curses, running a hand through his hair. It wasn’t him, Steve insists, the voice in his head small. It wasn’t Bucky.

When he returns to the room, Bucky's sitting up, curled against the headboard. Steve pauses at the doorway of the bathroom, hesitant to look back at the gun. Bucky's eyes meet his, still empty, but he chews on his bottom lip. “It’s me, Steve. It’s Bucky.”

Steve nods shakily, and starts towards him. Bucky shakes his head violently, shrinking into himself. “Don’t. Please. You can’t...you can’t trust me yet.”

Steve wants to disagree, but the dark of Bucky's eyes from before flash like a warning behind his eyes, so he nods, resting against the doorway. “Bucky do you...do you remember what happened?”

Bucky nods, eyes catching onto Steve's neck. “I’m sorry. Steve, I’m so...I-I’m so—”

“I know, Buck. It wasn’t you.”

“It was me,” Bucky insists. “Who...what I was. It’s still inside me. I was stupid to think, to...hope it was gone.” Bucky sucks in a ragged breath. “I had an episode. At the compound with Sam. I didn’t hurt anyone but...but I could have, Steve. I could’ve...I could’ve killed someone.”

“Bucky,” Steve sighs, and his legs lead him to the bed, cautious on the furthest edge. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn't want to worry you. I didn’t want it to be something...an issue. I thought it’d go away. But I...I knew I needed to protect you.”

Steve frowns. “What do you mean?”

“The gun,” Bucky starts, meeting Steve's eyes. “It wasn't because I needed protecting. It’s because you did. From...f-from me.”

“I could handle it,” Steve replies, and there’s a little frustration in his voice. “I don’t need a gun. I don’t need to...I’m not gonna shoot you, Buck. How could you think that I…You think I’d kill you just because of that?”

Bucky shakes his head, eyes wide. “No, Steve, they’re not...they’re not real bullets. They’re like tranquilisers. Enough power to subdue me long enough to...to get me somewhere safe.”

“That doesn’t make it any better!” Steve says, grasping onto anger, hands curled into fists. “They’ll just lock you up and keep you as a lab rat.”

“It’d be better now than later on. At least I have a little control. Next time you might not get a chance to.”

“I'm not,” Steve grits out, “going to shoot you. I’ll never shoot you, Bucky. I don’t care what it’s for. I'm not gonna let them take you away. I...I can’t, buck,” Steve stresses, and he realises he’s not holding onto anger. He's upset, and his vision is blurry again, not from trapped airways but from the tears building on his face. “I can’t lose you again. I can’t let them take you from me. Bucky, please, don’t make me do this.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, voice quiet but close, and there’s arms around him, gripping his shoulders. Bucky's eyes bore into his, and Steve blinks rapidly to clear his vision. “As much as you can’t lose me I...I can't lose you, too. I remember what you said. You said it wouldn’t hurt you if I…” Bucky clenches his jaw, and Steve feels him shake around him. “It would hurt me, Steve. I couldn’t live with myself.”

“We'll figure something out,” Steve nods, gripping the front of Bucky's shirt. “Together. Like the old days. We’re in this together, Buck. I’m not giving up on you.”

Bucky laughs, a hollow sound, and he presses their foreheads together. “Even after all these years?”

“Because of all these years,” Steve says firmly, tilting his head to meet Bucky's eyes. “It’s you and me, Buck.”

“Until the end of the line?”

Steve wants to tell him it’s further than that. He'd follow Bucky to the moon, the last planet in the solar system, the edge of the universe. For now he nods, hums when Bucky brushes the tears off his cheeks and settles Steve in his lap, arms tight around his waist. Steve bends his head into Bucky’s shoulder, inhaling deep as his hands wind into Bucky’s hair. Bucky’s still sniffing, so he lets himself be held, stroking the back of Bucky’s neck and rubbing his nose against Bucky’s collarbone. “I don't care if it’s still a part of you,” Steve mumbles into Bucky's shirt. “I don’t care if it’ll always be a part of you. You’re still you. That’s all that matters.”

Bucky sniffs a little louder, holding Steve so tight he wouldn’t be able to breathe if he wasn’t breathless already, at the hands on his waist, the weight under him, the lips near his neck. “Steve, I…” Bucky swallows stiffly, then relaxes, shoulders slumping. “Nothing. It’s...Thank you,” he says, and he pulls back a little, to meet Steve's eyes. “I think I should sleep in my room. Just for tonight.”

“Okay. If that’s what you need,” Steve says. He offers a smile, even though it aches to pull away, to squeeze Bucky's hand as it slips from his, to watch him duck out of the room with an affirming nod. 

The ache subsides when he lies down, and he doesn’t stop himself from rolling onto Bucky’s side. Despite everything, being nearly choked to death against the same sheets moments ago, Steve finds refuge in the scent of Bucky, how much it’s infused into Steve’s own smell, intertwined into his being as much as Bucky is. He can’t begin to comprehend what Bucky's fighting against, but he knows what he’s hoping for. Steve's not a counsellor, like Sam, or the hundreds of other employees at SHIELD that can help Bucky, but Steve's his best friend. You’re more than that, a voice insists, and Steve curls into sleep, undecided if the thought is reassuring or worrying. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year! i will try to update either on a tuesday or thursday!! xx


	6. fly;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> steve steps a little closer into bucky's world.

Steve’s been staring at the numbers in front of him so hard that they’ve turned into spirals and squiggles against the papers sprawled over the kitchen counter. It’s always been like this, on the penultimate day of the month, where he sits himself down and does the accounting of the bills. Sighing, Steve pinches the bridge of his nose, pencil tapping at the scratched out calculations on some scrap paper. He’s checked it seven times already with the total bill, and he still comes up exactly a hundred and seventeen dollars short. All because of an overdue cable bill from the previous month, and he feels instant regret over introducing Bucky to shows like Degrassi. 

“You’re wearing glasses,” a voice says, and Steve looks up as Bucky appears in his line of vision, shuffling into the kitchen, blue eyes fixed on Steve as he grasps for the fridge. 

Steve touches his face, at the wiry spectacles that rest on his nose. “Yeah, I...I don’t really need them that much. My eyes get a little tired in the morning sometimes, and they help.”

Bucky’s still staring, eyes unreadable as he leans against the fridge. His metal arm is on display under a white tank top, flexing against the fridge door while the other crosses against his chest. Steve squirms in his seat, eyes flickering over the veins on Bucky’s real arm and back to his paper, frowning hard, as if that will steady his heart. He sees a shadow cross over, and when he looks up Bucky is leaning over his shoulder, smelling of mint and a cologne that sharpens Steve’s senses. “What are you doing?”

“Uh...just the bills,” Steve croaks, blaming it on the way his voice is always hoarse in the mornings. “I’m a few hundred short, though. It won’t be a problem, I’ll just have to dig in the savings—”

Bucky’s gone, stepping out of the kitchen and heading up the staircase. Steve blinks, momentarily jarred before shaking his head and sifting through the papers again. It’s only a few minutes after Bucky leaves that there is a pile of notes sliding towards him on the table. The face of Benjamin Franklin stares back at him, and Steve chokes.

“Bucky, what the—”

“For the bills,” Bucky explains, tone nonchalant at the fact that Steve is cradling hundred dollar bills in his hands. “And for next month, too.”

“But where did you get this money from?”

Bucky blinks, tilting his head slightly, and the image of an overgrown puppy floats in Steve’s mind again. “From my jobs.”

“Jobs?” Steve raises an eyebrow. “As in, plural?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t...You never told me you had jobs.”

Bucky opens his mouth, then purses his lips, ducking his head. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine, I...I’m just curious.”

Bucky nods, pushing himself up from the table. “I’ll show you, if you want. My jobs.”

“Really? I mean, only if you’re comfortable.” Steve’s lying. He wants to know, desperately so. Steve looks down at the money. It must be a very cushy job, if Bucky can easily give it to Steve like that. He tucks the money in the envelope, sorting the papers into one pile. He notices Bucky slipping his shoes on near the front door, and cocks his head curiously. “Where are you going?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, just gestures his head to outside, stepping through the door. Steve shrugs, grabbing his own shoes before following. It had rained the night before, so the garden is showered with morning dew, neatly trimmed grass and bushes sparkling in the weak morning sun. The garden shed stands in the corner, more of an outhouse with its wide windows and exposed brick walls. Bucky unearths a key from his pocket, the only key for the garden. A few weeks after Bucky had arrived he’d taken over the little shed, and although Steve didn’t feel barred from it, Bucky always dismissed his use for it, so Steve had let it be, deciding Bucky’s privacy was more important than his curiosity.

Still, he can’t help peering over Bucky’s shoulder as the other opens the door wide, letting him in first. The warm smell of clay is what he registers first, an earthy scent that fills his nostrils. What surrounds him is shelves lined against the wall that are lined with pottery, moulded into pots of various sizes. A kiln sits at the end of the room near the chimney, and Steve can feel its heat radiating even from here against his forearms. There’s a little stool in front of a round table, a covered slab of clay on top. Another worktop is near the window, palettes pushed in the corner and painted pots on the shelf closest to it. Steve takes one that’s on the end, a pot that fits in one hand, painted blue with a sun dipping to the bottom, rays of orange and red brushing the top.

“This is what you do in here?” Steve asks, turning round and staring incredulously. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Bucky shrugs, and the room is a little dark, but he can still make out the faint pink on Bucky’s cheeks. “I was a little...embarrassed,” he admits with a sheepish laugh. “You were always the artsy one. They’re not as good as your drawings.”

“You’re right,” Steve nods, then breaks into a grin, pushing Bucky’s shoulder. “They’re even better.”

Bucky eyes widen fractionally, then he ducks his head, turning towards the kiln and peering inside. Steve inspects the other painted pots, decorated with mermaids swimming over the surface, another with blooming sunflowers, the other with a rainbow of kites. “These are incredible, Buck. What do you do with them?”

“I’ll show you,” Bucky offers, and he turns with a large crate in his hands, head peeking out on the top with a timid smile. “It’s a bit of a walk, though.”

It is twenty minutes of a walk, and Steve offers to hold the crate a few times, pouting when Bucky dismisses him. They near the edge of town, not far from their quiet little lane, but far enough that Steve doesn’t frequent it much. It’s nearing midday, so the streets are slightly busy, and Steve ducks his head in case someone recognises him. If they do, they don’t act upon it, or are too busy to, so the pair pass unmolested between those passing by.

Bucky slows as they near a florist, buttercup painted walls and a rose red awning below a sign that says Flora’s Flowers. There are pots of small fruit trees at the front, and Steve realises they’re Bucky’s pots, decorated with children playing under huge apple trees or climbing their branches. Bucky pushes open the door, a bell tinkling above, and Steve’s greeted by a world of flowers, lining the shelves and swirling down to the floor. There are tall wands of lilac, buds of peach, startling yellow blooming. The shop is small so every colour seems crammed together, a kaleidoscope in front of his eyes. He could spend the whole day in the store painting each and every colour.

“Didn’t expect you to be here this morning, Barnes,” a voice calls pleasantly, and Steve looks up to see a man shaking Bucky’s hand, the other clasped on Bucky’s shoulder. He gives Steve a friendly grin, laughter wrinkles across his hazel coloured skin. “And you’ve brought a friend. Nice to meet you, Mr Rogers.”

“Steve is fine.” The man takes Steve’s outstretched hand, palm warm and calloused. “Are you...Flora?”

The man laughs, heading back to the counter. “The name’s actually Alfred, but my friends call me Alfie. Flora was my wife. Thirty five years of my life I spent with her,” he explains, nodding to the photograph on the wall behind the till. A woman sits in a garden spilling with flowers, looking like one herself with a rosy smile, hand in front of her eyes from the sun and laughing. “She passed away before she got to see this place. It was her dream to open up a florist, so running this shop...it keeps her alive with me.”

“It’s a wonderful shop,” Steve comments sincerely.

“Thank you. Even better with your friend’s work. Folks love the little pots Bucky makes here. Showed up one day looking around and offered to help out.” Alfred gives Bucky a grateful smile, before clapping his hands together. “But you boys better scram before the morning rush comes in. There’s a few relatives visiting town, so there’s a lotta people getting new flower arrangements. Impressing the in-laws and that. Don’t want you guys getting caught up in that, what with you both being celebrities and all.”

“We’re not…” Steve rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, and Alfred laughs again.

Bucky nods. “I’ll be back on the weekend with more. For the magnolias.” 

They both wave before ducking out of the shop, and Bucky looks back through the window, a little wistfully. “Alfred is a good man. He misses his wife sometimes, so I didn’t want him to be lonely.”

Steve nods, hands in his pockets. “All that time with the love of his life. That’s the dream, right?”

He turns to Bucky, squinting through the sun in his eyes, but he can’t read the expression on the other man’s face, blue eyes shadowed and staring. Bucky glances back through the glass before turning away, jerking his chin further left down the street. “One more stop.”

Steve follows Bucky, who still carries the half empty crate, shoulders straining against his shirt. Looking away, Steve is slightly taken aback at how busy the mornings are, like Alfred said. It is the weekend, mothers gathering their giggling children into shops, a group of teenage boys hanging off the side of a truck as they talk to a blushing girl outside of an ice cream parlour, an old man strolling with a dog at his side. None of them pay them any notice; there are a few who take a second glance, but brush it off and continue their task. What would Captain America be doing in an Upper New York suburbia?

They round a second corner, and Bucky slows as they reach the two large red doors of a small restaurant, a few tables outside. Pushing open the doors, Bucky steps inside, and when Steve does he’s greeted not by colours this time, but by noise. There’s shouts and music coming from a kitchen, the clank and clatter of utensils echoing off the walls. A group of kids are sitting atop the counter, arguing loudly over a game of cards, and what looks like the eldest hops off the stool as the pair enter, bubblegum snapping in her mouth. She yells something in what Steve recognises as Vietnamese, before turning back with a flustered smile. “Hiya, Bucky. Have more plates for us?”

“Good morning, Tammie,” Bucky greets, and waves at the other kids. They chorus a greeting before returning to their game, barely paying attention to Steve. 

The teen girl Tammie does, looking him up and down. “Who are you?”

“That’s Steve. My roommate. And...my best friend,” Bucky says, and glances at Steve with a small smile, which Steve returns reassuringly, heart syrupy warm.

Tammie’s eyes flicker between the two, then she sighs, leaning against the counter. “Guess I should just give up,” she mutters, blowing her bangs out of her face.

Steve frowns, confused, and the kitchen doors blast open, a tall woman breezing through, flour streaked across her face. “Get off that counter, children, you’re making a mess. Just because we’re not open yet doesn’t mean you can’t behave,” she scolds, before tapping the back of Tammie’s head. “And didn’t I tell you to start your math assignment?”

Tammie grumbles, along with the rest of the children, who slink off to a table covered with notebooks and backpacks. The woman turns to Bucky, frown disappearing as she smiles pleasantly. “More plates, Bucky? You are truly American angel.” She looks at Steve, and her eyes twinkle. “And I see you’ve brought your gentleman friend.”

“Just a regular friend,” Steve cuts in quickly, ears pink as he offers his hand to shake. “Steve Rogers.”

“Ah, Steve,” she says, eyes still sparkling in amusement, and Bucky looks intently at the paintings on the wall. “I’m Mama Linh, and this is Mama Linh’s restaurant. We’re not open yet, but how about some breakfast for you both?”

“I don’t want to trouble you, Mrs Linh,” Bucky starts, but she flaps his shoulder, tutting.

“It’s Mama Linh, how many times, James? And you need to eat, both of you. Keep your muscles in shape, yes? You think Bucky needs to look after his muscles more, don’t you Steve?”

“Uh…” Steve blinks, feeling the heat creep up his neck as they both stare, Mama Linh with a mischievous spark, Bucky a little blank. “I think his um, muscles are...they’re fine. They’re...good.”

There’s a painting of a well on the wall opposite, and Steve desperately wishes that it was real, just so he could throw himself down it. Mama Linh looks like she’s stifling a laugh, and gestures towards a table that they can sit at. Steve slides into a seat opposite Bucky, and looks around as if to survey the place, and not because he’s nervous about making eye contact with the other. “This is really cozy. Reminds me of that Chinese hole in the wall in Brooklyn. Course, Vietnamese isn’t the same, but it has the same vibe. Homey-like.”

Bucky nods, reclining in his chair. “Ken’s Chow.”

Steve blinks, startled. “You remember.”

“Hard not to remember. You spilled a bowl of dumpling soup all over yourself the first time you tried to use chopsticks.” Bucky grins, and Steve rolls his eyes, huffing a little. In this moment though, with Bucky leaning back in his chair, amusement playing on his lips, Steve really does feel like he’s back in that restaurant, frantic apologies at his lips as a waiter mops up his mess, Bucky rocking with suppressed laughter. 

Like mirror images layered on top, Bucky now seems like a mixture of both his past and his present. It’s a little the same, as Mama Linh gives them their food and Bucky sneaks pieces into Steve’s bowl when he thinks he isn’t looking. And it’s a little different, what with Bucky being the one struggling with the chopsticks this time, Steve’s hand covering Bucky’s as he shapes his fingers around them, cheeks warm. Steve feels like he’s got one of each foot stuck in the other, but no matter how disorientating it feels, it’s still Bucky, and he’s always been able to make Steve feel grounded.

They leave with a bag full of food, Mama Linh waving them off from paying, and a promise to visit on the weekend. Steve yawns as they fall into step on the pavement, stomach full. “You’re working for some pretty good people, Buck. Thanks for showing me.”

Bucky nods. “I shouldn’t live for free under your house,” he starts, and Steve wants to correct him. Our house, his heart insists. Our home. Bucky slows a little, staring at his gloved hand, turning it over thoughtfully. “For a long time, all my hands knew was violence. Blood, and how to break it from others.” He clenches it in a fist, but he’s smiling, soft but still sad around the edges. “It makes art now. And that’s good.”

Steve looks at Bucky’s hand, in a fist that trembles a little, and he reaches out, pulling Bucky’s fingers from their hold and, without a second thought, interlacing his own. “It’s really good, Bucky,” he says, keeping his voice even as he squeezes Bucky’s hand gently.

Bucky is watching him, even as they continue walking, hands still linked. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything, knuckles bumping against Steve’s leg as they walk. Steve stares at their shadows, as if they’re one body, and thinks, surprisingly, of Alfred. Of the thirty five years he spent with his wife. He thinks of Bucky, and the ninety odd years between them. 

All that time with the love of your life. That’s the dream, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have exams this week and the next so the next update will probably be next thursday, not tuesday. i hope everyone's week is spectacular! xx


	7. healed;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bucky helps steve remember a special someone.

It’s the smell of cooking that startles Steve as he comes down from his bedroom, bleary eyed from the nap he took. He’s been taking more recently, ignoring Sam and Natasha’s jokes about the years catching up to him. It’s more from the evaluations he’s been writing for each of his students at the facility, head pounding from staring at the computer screen. He’s always felt tired anyways, that bone deep exhaustion that comes from being a soldier.

Curiosity flickers him awake, sniffing the air as he rounds the corner from the staircase. Steve’s eyes fall upon the kitchen, and both his eyebrows rise as he gazes upon Bucky, standing in front of the oven, stirring a pot above. His hair is swept up in a bun, dark wisps trailing the back of his neck, skin exposed and flushed from the cooking right down to his collarbone. There’s a streak of flour on his cheek, and his brows are knitted in concentration as he glances down at the oven, checking what’s inside. When he looks back up, his eyes meet Steve’s, and Steve snaps his gaping mouth shut as Bucky waves the wooden spoon as a greeting.

“Did you sleep well?” He asks nonchalantly, as if it isn’t the first time Steve’s seen him standing in the kitchen since...the 30s, and that thought makes Steve’s lips twitch upwards, offering a smile back.

“Yeah, I...It smells good in here,” Steve notes, stepping past the couch in the sitting room and near the counters. “Do you need any help?”

“I’m fine. I have been the past hour you’ve been snoring with sheep.”

“I—” Steve blinks, and when Bucky winks, he feels the sting of it on his cheeks, the flutter of it in his stomach. “I don’t snore.”

Bucky hums, eyes bright with amusement, and Steve sits on one of the stools, watching Bucky pull a knife from its block. He stopped locking them up ages ago, despite Bucky himself advising against it. He was still spooked from the accident that happened that night, and even though he’d been attending more therapy sessions at the compound, he walked around Steve tentatively, and sparsely reached out to him when they went to bed. Steve couldn’t tell Bucky he missed it, missed him, because he’s right there, and it’d be selfish to say he wanted Bucky to hold him as he slept or sit with him when he’s reading instead of heading to the garden shed. It would be selfish and foolish, because Bucky could find out that Steve missed him as more, not just as a friend.

Bucky slices the bell peppers with surprising skill, sliding them into a sizzling pan, drizzling in some white wine. Steve props his hand with his elbow, raising an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell me you were a culinary chef.”

Bucky makes a huffing noise that sounds like a scoff, ears pinking. “I’m not, I...I just watched a video a few times, that’s it.”  
“Looks like more than a few times. What did you do, memorise the whole thing?”

Bucky shrugs, a small smile on his face. “Something like that.” He taps his head. “Steel trap.”

Steve nods, and there’s something like pride he’s feeling, squeezing at his chest, along with the other familiar knots, almost a century old. They twist as Steve’s gaze flickers over Bucky’s rolled sleeves showing his forearms, pulling taut at the apron tied around Bucky’s waist, humming something off key, smiling triumphantly as he plates the meal. Steve blinks, ducking his head as his heart settles back in its place, mustering a smile as Bucky pushes the dish in front of him.

“The main course,” Bucky announces, placing a fork beside Steve’s plate. “Dessert just needs cooling.”

Steve takes a bite, breaking into a grin around the mouthful. “It’s really good, Buck. What’s the occasion?”

Bucky freezes, smile slipping off his face. He frowns, mouthing to himself, and Steve is about to tell him to forget he asked when the oven dings, and Bucky shakes his head, slipping on the oven gloves. He’s quiet as he pulls out the tray, a small cake golden brown and spilling its sweet scent into the air. “It’s a birthday cake,” He mumbles, pulling off the oven gloves to rub the back of his neck. “I thought...I thought I got the date right.”

Steve frowns. It’s definitely not his birthday, since it’s not the Fourth of July. And he remembers Bucky’s birthday, so it must be someone they both knew, someone Bucky knew meant a lot to—

“Oh.” Steve stills as it dawns on him, and he stares down at the food on his plate before letting out a hollow laugh. “Ma.” Steve rubs his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Son of the Year, am I right?”

“It’s okay,” Bucky says quickly, a plate in his hand. “You’ve been busy, and it’s been...a long time. I didn’t know if you...did anything, for it. It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have made it a big deal—”

“No, don’t...it’s okay, Buck. Honestly,” Steve insists. “Steel trap, right?”

Bucky nods jerkily, and cuts the cake in half, reaching for the buttercream and jam on the stove. Steve watches in silence as he spreads it over the surface, making his way through the plate. It really is good, better than anything Steve’s made. He tells Bucky so, and it’s worth it, the way Bucky coughs, busying himself with slicing the cake to hide his blush. It makes the guilt fade away, body warm from the food Bucky made and how damn domestic Bucky looks, joining Steve with his own plates and glass, pouring out wine for himself. They both aren’t affected by alcohol, but Steve supposes it’s the thought that counts.

Steve decides to wait to eat the cake with Bucky, watching as he takes a hearty bite of the stroganoff, and his stomach squeezes at the bobbing of Bucky’s throat as he swallows it down, sweaty from the heat of the oven. Steve grabs his own glass, filling his thoughts of finishing it instead of the thought of bringing his mouth to the base of Bucky’s neck.

“You’re right,” Bucky says around a mouthful. “It is better than what you cook.”

Steve scowls, and Bucky grins, shaking the hair out of his eyes. “Maybe you should cook more often, then,” He muses, biting back a smile as Bucky shrugs. Steve squeezes his knees together, tightening his hold on the glass. “I didn’t celebrate her birthday when I came out of the ice. Peggy was alive but she never knew Ma, so there was no one else to celebrate it with. It was just another reminder, anyway. That everyone I used to know wasn’t there anymore.”

“Not everyone,” Bucky points out, twirling his fork slowly against his plate. “Would it have been better? If we found each other earlier? You wouldn’t have been...lonely.”

Steve shakes his head, offering a smile. “I don’t care about that. You’re here now, that’s what matters. And I wasn’t lonely, not all the time. I had Nat, and Tony, surprisingly, then Sam and—” Steve pauses, wincing as Bucky stares at his bowl, metal fingers tracing the rim. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay. I...I wasn’t alone either,” Bucky smiles, and Steve hates that it’s a little sad around the edges. “I could remember things. At a time. About you. About back then. Even about Sarah.”

“Yeah?” Steve leans in, bumping his shoulder against Bucky’s. “Like what?”

Bucky puts his plate down, frowning as he taps the side of his mouth in thought, and Steve wants to lean closer, press his cheek against Bucky’s shoulder and breathe him in. “She had that light blue dress with the matching hat, and she’d wear it when she took you to Sunday mass. There was always a fresh plate of beef brisket for me every Saturday afternoon. She’d leave newspaper near the doorstep in the autumn, ‘cause our shoes got wet with all those holes in them.” Bucky looks at him then, eyes blue and earnest. “She loved you.”

Steve swallows, blinking hard. It’s strange, carrying the memory of someone who died over a hundred years ago, practically lifetimes ago. He knows that it’ll get harder to keep her alive in his mind, that her face will fade around the edges, but he’ll never forget how she felt, gentle like a sunrise, smiling with tears whenever she bandaged Steve up after a fight. There’s an even earlier memory, clutching his hand in hers, her laugh against the summer breeze as he skipped the slabs of pavement, hand held tight and swinging. He stares at his hand now, larger than he was when he was ten, larger than his mother ever saw, with more scars than she’d ever know.

“I get a lot of people, mostly older women, who tell me Ma would’ve been proud,” Steve starts, tracing the lines on his palm. “Of who I am. Who I became. She never got to see me like this, even after the ice.”

Bucky shifts in his seat, passing a slice of cake to Steve. “I think she would’ve hated it,” he says, grinning when Steve snorts. “She was so protective of you. She would’ve chained you up to your bed if you even thought about signing up. And imagine her face if she’d seen those posters with you in that ridiculous getup. She’d faint right there in the middle of the Wednesday market.”

Steve laughs then, because he can imagine it. Sarah Rogers, dragging him by the ear, all six foot of him. Bucky’s hand on his knee startles him, and he feels his muscles tense at its warm weight. “But I would’ve talked her around. I’d say, ‘He’s a real hero, our Stevie. I’ve seen him out there, and he’s doing the most good out of all of us. And he gets it from his mother. Saving lives. It’s in the Rogers’ blood’.”

Steve exhales shakily, and Bucky squeezes before letting go. He pushes himself off the stool, gathering the plates and glasses in his arms. “I’ll wash the dishes. Have another slice if you want. I didn’t know it was gonna be good, so I didn’t make a lot, but I might make some more tomorrow for Mama Linh and her folks.”

Bucky dumps them in the sink, gathering the pots from the stove. Steve watches Bucky's back, muscles shifting as he scrubs at the oven tray, stopping at times to drink from his glass of wine. He’s watched it many times before, wiping down counters at the diner Bucky used to work at; leaning outside of the fire escape at night, cigarette in hand; breath hushed and quiet in the mountains, gun slung over his shoulder. Bucky belonged there, in every scene of Steve’s mind, but he belongs here the most, in the glow of their kitchen, a hundred miles and a hundred years away from the place they first met, elbows soapy and humming under his breath.

Alcohol doesn’t have an effect on Steve, not after his transformation, so he can’t remember how it feels, but it must be something like this, something like how he feels now, looking at Bucky. There’s a buzz that consumes his heart, makes his skin warm and his head spin. It has him standing up, coming up from behind and snaking his arms around Bucky’s waist, leaning into his back. Bucky stills, and Steve watches, hooking his chin on Bucky’s shoulder, as Bucky’s fingers clench around a soapy plate, the line of his jaw tensing before Steve closes his eyes and presses his nose into Bucky’s shirt.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, and he’s sure Bucky can feel his heart hammering, ringing in his ears. “Thank you, Buck.”

Bucky doesn’t move, but Steve feels him relax against his palms, sides filling out against Steve’s arms. He’s distracted by the feel of his chest against Bucky’s back as he breathes in that familiar scent, cardamom and pine curling in Steve’s nostrils. He’s so distracted he doesn’t see Bucky wipe his hands on the dishcloth, but he does feel him turn around, by damp hands placed on the small of Steve’s back, the breath that falls hot on the side of his neck. Bucky’s hand comes to cradle the back of Steve’s head, fingers tangled in his hair, and Steve feels his heart stutter as Bucky’s lips are felt briefly on his forehead. Steve holds him a little tighter, anchoring himself to this moment.

Pulling away is a slow affair; it’s Steve smoothing down the back of Bucky’s shirt, taking one last inhale, and it’s Bucky tugging at the strands of Steve’s hair, scratching the nape of his neck and letting Steve step to the side. Bucky doesn’t protest when Steve joins him at the sink, drying the dishes in comfortable silence and stacking them away in the cupboard. Or when Steve packs away the remainder of the cake, feeding Bucky the last piece of his own slice, and the silences emboldens Steve as he watches Bucky swallow it with a grin, to lean forward and brush the crumbs off his chin.

Steve brushes his hand against his thigh, and when he looks back up Bucky is staring at him, in such a disjointed way Steve feels oddly exposed, as if his skin has been peeled away and Bucky’s peering inside of him. The thought makes him turn away, putting the last of the crockery in its place, hiding his flushed cheeks.

When they finally reach the bedroom, for the first time in a long time it’s Bucky who reaches for Steve. They’re facing each other, and Bucky’s eyes meet his when he tugs him close by the waist, until their foreheads bump together and Steve’s hands clumsily fall down Bucky’s chest. “Do you remember,” Bucky murmurs against the pillow, and it’s dark, so Steve hopes Bucky can’t see how he watches the movements of his lips, how he heats up under Bucky’s touch on his hip bone, tracing lazy circles. “That song your ma used to sing, in the kitchen?”

Steve nods into Bucky’s chest. “The Best Things In Life Are Free.”

Bucky sighs, and he’s humming again, tapping a tune softly against Steve’s skin. “ _The moon belongs to everyone_ ,” He starts, a quiet rumbling sound that goes right to Steve’s spine. “ _The best things in life are free. The moon belongs to everyone, the best things in life are free_.”

Bucky is singing in his hair, stroking the base of Steve’s spine, and Steve presses closer, if only to pretend he’s back in their bed in Brooklyn, a bed too small for their awkward limbs, the soft sounds of his mother’s record player slipping under his closed door. The song’s right, because he doesn’t need to pay to see the moonlight fall on the stubble of Bucky’s jaw, to have his hands in his hair or on his skin. It should cost millions of dollars to feel this way, heart tripping over itself in sleepy clumsiness, making Steve forget not to press himself closer to Bucky, to not pull away when Bucky’s lips brush his ear, crooning into his core. But it’s free, and it’s worse, because all Steve can do, all he wants to do, is take and take until there’s nothing left.

_And love can come to everyone_   
_The best things in life are free_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next update will probably be on a thursday again x


	8. real;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bucky's not quite himself.

It’s nearing half ten in the night when Tony calls, so naturally Steve thinks there is something wrong. He’s just got into his car outside the New Avengers Facility when he gets the call from the Stark Tower, and wonders if the situation is dire enough to get out and hijack a helicopter.

“What’s the emergency, Stark?”

“Ah, Captain O’ Captain. Can’t I call you just because I miss you?”

“Bruce’s birthday party was literally two days ago,” Steve points out. “If it’s not important, then—” Steve frowns as the sound of a crash is heard on the other side of the phone, followed by high pitched laughter. “What was that?”

“That, is our situation, Cap. You remember when we nearly brought devastation to the world when Ultron tried to wipe out human existence?”

“You mean you, Tony. You created him.”

“Semantics, water under the bridge, blah blah,” Tony continues, dismissive of the continuous crashing in the background. “Well, we had a party beforehand, right? And Thor brought that Asgard juice he said could probably knock even you out? Then I said I could definitely recreate it, but he just laughed in my face? You know, he’s always been a little too arrogant, and it’s quite distracting. I mean, imagine being constantly in the presence of someone who thinks that they’re better than you, smarter than you—”

“The point, Stark,” Steve sighs, rubbing the side of his head. Frankly, he’d love to go home and sit on the sofa with the book he’s reading recently. Bucky had left much earlier with Natasha, and Steve wonders if he’s made anything at home, as he spends more time in the kitchen nowadays.

“Jeez, let a man tell a story, won’t you?” Tony huffs petulantly. “So I needed a test subject, right? But every time I asked you, you’d say no, which is another thing to discuss. Why do you ignore my texts?”

“Maybe because you keep sending me the words ‘lets juice you up’ followed by several alcoholic emojis and a smirky face one.”

“Since you’re no fun,” Tony continues, “I thought, why not get another test subject? Where, oh where could I find a sweet, unsuspecting supersoldier on call?”

“Tony.” Steve calls him by his first name this time, because the pieces click, and he rubs a hand down his face, suddenly exhausted. “Tell me you didn’t call Bucky. Is that—is that him? Making all that noise?”

“In truth, I didn’t know the dosage would be this strong. Or that Barnes was such a lightweight,” Tony mutters, and Steve winces at the sound of shrieking down the phone. “I had the situation in control, in a controlled space, but—Jesus, will you please put Nat down?—clearly I underestimated the factors. And the amount of Pepper’s vases are in our penthouse. So, you think you could come over and collect him?”

“Bucky’s not a lightweight,” Steve mutters. “I’ll be there in ten.”

He hangs up, switching on the ignition and suppressing the flurry of emotions in his chest. The Bucky he remembers always won at drinking games, and was the one who’d carry Steve from the bars they snuck into, always the first to get giddy from a few glasses of whiskey or other. That was Bucky from before, and there’s no use comparing him to now, especially after whatever HYDRA tried to replicate in him like Steve’s own.

It takes him longer than ten minutes to drive there, because although Steve is worried he still has to abide by the law. He’s pretty sure there’s some way for Captain America to get out of a speeding ticket, but Steve decides to stay under the limit since it’s dark, and he doesn’t want to cause an accident. It doesn’t stop him from jogging out of the parking lot and into the lobby of the Stark Tower, sending a rushed greeting to the receptionist before heading into Tony’s private elevator, the only one that goes to the penthouse on top of Stark Tower. It recognises his fingerprint, as well as Tony’s other close friends, and in other circumstances Steve would be touched.

The elevator doors slide open, and Steve regards the situation before him, stepping out into the wide plan living room. It’s in slight disarray, furniture toppled over, and there’s a smashed vase of flowers on the carpet, flower petals soaked into its fabric. The bar is near the floor to floor window, and Tony is slumped in a stool, in his trademark three piece suit, tie loose and hair ruffled. He hides behind his glass of scotch, slipping down in his seat and pretending that Steve can’t see him. Steve rolls his eyes.

“Okay, Stark, where’s—”

“Stevie’s here!” A voice calls behind an upturned sofa, and out clambers Bucky, a grinning Nat draped over his shoulders, holding her phone up to film the pair of them. Bucky looks...he looks ridiculous, one of Tony’s ties wrapped around his forehead like a bandana, pushing his hair back, and he’s got a dopey grin on his face, cheeks flushed red. He squints, stumbling over a cushion that makes Nat clutch on his shoulders tighter. “And...did you bring your twin? Hey, I didn’t know you had a brother!”

Steve glares, first at Tony, then at Natasha. “You were here, and you didn’t stop him?”

“Hey, Tony only told me what it was after he gave Bucky a glass of it,” Natasha defends. “Could I have intervened when he drank three glasses and attempted to quite literally swing from the light fixtures? Yes, I could have. But it was much funnier to record it.”

“How very mature of the both of you,” Steve deadpans, glancing at Bucky as he jumps from cushion to cushion, Natasha swinging on his back and cackling gleefully.

“Captain, o Captain, what’s the big deal?” Tony speaks up, jumping from his stool. Evidently, he had gotten fed up with the attention not being on him. “I’ve just given you both the best wedding gift of a lifetime. I’m like Prometheus. You should make a shrine for me.”

“Who’s getting married?” Bucky asks, slipping Natasha from his grasp.

“Who else? You and Mr All American Doll—”

“No one,” Steve snaps, heat in his gaze and blooming on his cheeks. “How do you even know what it’s doing to his body? He hasn’t been affected by alcohol in literal decades.”

“O Captain! My Captain! Rise up and hear the bells,” Bucky begins to recite, clambering on the side of the couch, balancing with his arms spread out. “Rise up! For you the flag is flung, for you the bugle trills!”

“He’s fine,” Tony says breezily. “FRIDAY has been giving us updates. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t dare to damage your beloved’s liver.”

Bucky jumps from the couch, bowing as he finishes the poem, then proceeds to pass out. The three of them stare at his fallen form, Nat still recording, Tony with a sheepish grin.

“It appears Mr Barnes has lost consciousness,” FRIDAY reports, and Steve sighs, picking his way through the mess.

“Come on, Buck. Let’s get home,” Steve mumbles, pulling Bucky up from the floor and draping one of his arms around his shoulders. His scent is stained with alcohol, and Steve remembers Bucky stumbling into his shoebox of an apartment in Brooklyn, crashing on the couch with loud snores. He’s not snoring now, but Steve can hear him mumbling under his breath as they stagger into the elevator. Giving an awkward wave goodbye to his two friends, the elevator doors close behind them, and Steve is careful to not let Bucky slip to the floor. It’s a hassle, since Bucky seems intent on lying down and sleeping there, and he practically has to drag Bucky from under his pits to his car, hoping the cameras don’t think he’s carrying out a dead body.

Steve manages to get Bucky to the back seat, pushing the tie off his head and strapping both seat belts over his body. His mumbling has evolved into singing, lyrics jumbled as he dozes against the car window. There’s a text from Tony on Steve’s phone, about the effects wearing off in an hour or two, and a few videos that Nat sends of Bucky. Steve sighs, switching on the ignition and drowning out Bucky’s slurred singing as he drives.

By the time they pull up to their own driveway Bucky’s mostly awake, and he struggles to a seating position, tugging at the seat belts in confusion. Steve comes round and undoes it for him, and Bucky mumbles out a thanks before falling out of the car.

“Such a gentleman,” Bucky grins as Steve helps him to his feet, and his arms find themselves around Steve’s neck as he’s dragged towards the front door. He frowns, staring up at Steve. “Were you always this tall?”

“Have been for a century or so, Buck,” Steve replies, struggling to twist his arm around Bucky to fit the key in the lock. When he does he has to grip on the doorway just so they don’t topple onto the hallway carpet, Bucky’s weight heaved on his side. “Come on, we should get you to bed.”

“Aw, but the night’s still young, Stevie,” Bucky whines, spinning out of Steve’s arms.

“Yeah, and we’re old,” Steve smiles, clenching down on the flutter in his stomach when Bucky calls him by that name. “And you’re splendidly drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” Bucky says defensively, eyebrows knitted. “I haven’t felt like this since...hey, you remember when we went to Sam and Sophie’s rooftop party and we had to stay behind to clean up, and if you looked down you could see the traffic rushing below, but the sky was so quiet above us? That’s the last time I felt this.”

Steve’s not sure what Bucky is talking about, so he nods and busies himself guiding Bucky to a stool in the kitchen, filling him a glass of water as he scrolls through his phone. “Isn't it amazing how something so small can be so many things?” Bucky wonders, lips parted in awe. “A camera, an arcade, even a record player.”

Music fills the living room, light and jazzy, and Steve sighs as Bucky jumps from his seat, swaying with his arms outstretched. “Come on, Stevie, dance with me.”

“Buck, I…” Steve decides to give up on pestering him; he’s sure Bucky will get tired soon, so he holds out the glass of water. “Only if you drink this first.”

He bites back a smile at how quickly Bucky takes the glass from his hand and swallows it down, before grabbing Steve’s hand and tugging him to the space between their sitting room and kitchen. Steve tries not to jump when Bucky’s hand other hand finds his waist, and Steve places his own on Bucky’s chest, spinning him in a quick dance. He hardly danced back in the day, save for his mother, standing on her toes in her bedroom, but he watched Bucky enough to know what he’s doing, sitting alone in the bar as he twirled off with a girl every night. Steve’s watched him enough to know how Bucky dances, how each step is light and a bounce of his feet, how he loves to spin his partner until they're giddy and breathless, collapsing on his chest so he can squeeze them tight.

Steve grins as the next song comes on, and Bucky sends them spinning around the couch. “Didn’t you sing this song outside Darla Pittman’s apartment when she broke up with you?”

Bucky laughs, giving a guilty smile. “And Jennie Foster’s, and Elaine Richardson’s, and Fancy Frieda’s.” He nudges Steve’s shoulder with his own. “ _You're the cream in my coffee, You're the salt in my stew. You'll always be my necessity, I'd be lost without you._ ”

Steve pretends to cringe, laughing as Bucky continues singing, albeit rather loudly. They’re probably going to get a complaint or two, but Steve doesn’t have the heart to stop him. “You remember Fancy Frieda?” Steve asks with a raised eyebrow.

“It’d be a shame if I didn’t. Pretty sure she was the only girl who made me spend fifty dollars on a nice waistcoat to wear to some fancy gala. It was the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever worn.”

“And the most expensive,” Steve adds. “Imagine if you married her, you’d have to wear those things all day long.”

Bucky shudders, and Steve laughs again, letting Bucky spin him out and back into his arms, hand trailing down his side. “You know, I did think about marrying her.”

Steve blinks, disorientated from the slowing pace of the song and their steps, now swaying in one spot. “Really?”

“ _You're as pretty as a picture_  
_In your brand new evening gown_  
_Within your eyes I see that starlight of old..._ ”

“Just in passing once. Her father would’ve probably set me up with a job at his firm, made me partner in a few years. 3 kids living in the city, retiring to the suburbs with a white picket fence. It’s not like it wasn’t plausible. You wouldn’t believe the amount of girls who asked me to run away with them.”

“I can’t imagine,” Steve says, mustering a layer of sarcasm over the tightness in his chest. “Why didn’t you?”

“You and I know I hardly had ten dollars to my name, and I couldn’t leave my Ma with all those mouths to feed. Besides,” Bucky grins at Steve, amused. “I wanted to be your best man before I got myself hitched.”

“You—” Steve flushes, looking down, which means staring at his hand on Bucky’s chest, and it only makes him feel even more flustered. “You would’ve been waiting quite a while, then.”

“Nah. I was convinced that the right girl would come along soon. Or maybe I just made excuses,” Bucky yawns, and Steve is too tired to figure out what that means, mind already muddled with Bucky’s hands slipping to his neck, head falling near Steve’s collarbone. Steve’s own hands slip to Bucky’s sides to steady him, and he tries not to shiver when Bucky nuzzles his nose near his clavicle.

“I used to wonder what this felt like,” Steve says, the words slipping from his lips involuntarily, as if he’s the drunk one. Bucky stirs against him, lifting his head.

“What?”

“You know, um…” Steve swallows, feeling backed in a corner. “Us. Dancing together. I used to watch you. Not like...there was nothing else to do, w-when we went dancing with the girls. They’d flock to you and...and they’d always have this dazed expression when they danced with you, especially to songs like this.”

“So?” Bucky smiles lazily, bumping his forehead with Steve’s. “How was the Bucky Barnes experience?”

Steve laughs breathlessly, biting back a smile. “I think you ruined it by asking, hot stuff.”

“I’ll take that as a positive review,” Bucky replies, and, with his face buried in Steve’s shirt, it’s hard to make out his next words. “Me too.”

“You too…?”

“I...thought of dancing with you,” Bucky continues, and Steve holds his breath, wishes his heart would stop beating too, so Bucky couldn’t feel it stuttering over his words. Bucky noses up his collarbone, lips ghosting his neck. “You’re my partner in crime, right? Why couldn’t you be my partner on the dance floor too?” Bucky huffs. “Stupid fucking laws.”

“Y-Yeah,” Steve says, and he should say something else, but he doesn’t quite know how to, not with Bucky’s hand curling into his hair, the other trailing down his spine, lips hot on Steve’s skin. His head throbs, thoughts in such a disarray he doesn’t realise he’s leaning closer to Bucky until he’s doing it, hips flush against each other.

“As for the Steve Rogers experience,” Bucky murmurs, and a sigh escapes Steve’s mouth as Bucky’s lips work up the curve of his neck, caressing his earlobe. “I think I’d like to revisit it.”

“Bucky,” Steve breathes, and his stomach squeezes at how ragged it sounds, biting hard on his bottom lip as Bucky’s teeth graze his ear. “I—You’re drunk,” He gasps, and he’s stepping back, hands still on Bucky’s sides so he doesn’t fall on the floor. His head begins to clear, and he can focus on Bucky, who is now a safe distance apart, frowning at him with eyes drooping.

“I told ya I’m…” Bucky yawns again, shaking his head slowly. “I’m perfectly fine.”

There’s still a slur in his words, one that Steve didn’t notice before, and he inhales deeply, cold logic settling his thoughts and dousing him out of his own dazed stupor. Bucky’s still drunk, and whatever Tony put in his drink, Steve’s sure it must be what’s making him so loose lipped. Steve glances at his lips, pink and pouty, and suppresses the memory of them on his skin, warm and wet, how pliant he felt under them. “Whatever you are, it’s getting late, and you’ve had a long day. You should be getting to bed.”

Bucky grumbles, pulling away from Steve and crossing his arms over his chest. “Didn’t know I still had a curfew, Mom.”

Steve huffs a laugh, dry and forced, and he pushes Bucky up the stairs by his shoulders and into the bathroom, instructing him to brush his teeth and change into some pyjamas he finds under Bucky’s pillow. Steve leans against the wall, catching his breath. He shouldn’t have said those things, shouldn’t have danced that close to Bucky, danced that close to him finding out that age old secret wedged in between his heart, all those layers carefully placed over it melting away in one moment.

Although, if he’s honest, he’s pretty sure they began to peel back the day he brought Bucky home with him, a duffel bag slung over his shoulders and hair falling past dark eyes. Each layer, forgotten with every smile coaxed out of Bucky’s lips, with a glance of those bright blue eyes, with that his hand, large, calloused, yet soft, reaching towards Steve. All of it’s brought him to this moment, with those words so close to breaching his mouth.

“Stevie,” Bucky mumbles, stepping out of the bathroom and pressing himself behind Steve, minty breath down his neck. “Can’t sleep without you.”

Steve squeezes his eyes shut, and he shoves those words down, traps them in the corner of his heart and pats Bucky’s hands. “Come on, get settled and I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

Bucky nods, loping into the bed and diving straight for Steve’s side. Steve watches him, then turns to the bathroom, and with each step he feels his heart locking down, clamping on his unkempt feelings. Steve’s done this before, locking away his feelings like this. He’s done this for almost a hundred years, so, he supposes, as he tugs off his shirt and slips into bed with his best friend, and unfortunately, the love of his life, he can do this again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i tried to make this a turning point in steve and admitting his feelings for bucky, as the next few chapters are going to lead up to make it more of a plot and less of just pieces of their lives.
> 
> i'm going to post on tuesday next week, so stay tuned for a new chapter, with a little twist!


	9. shadows;

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> another perspective.

Bucky’s used to the fog. It sifts and spills in his mind, obscuring his best and worst memories from him. He finds himself, at times, wading through them in search for...something. Sometimes, he feels memories biting at his heels, dark and unforgiving, bloody and bruised. They can cause him to stumble, choke on the heaviness of it all, and slip back into that mould HYDRA created for him. His counsellor calls them blackouts, saying he loses consciousness and becomes the Winter Soldier again. Bucky doesn’t want to tell her that he feels everything when he slips, that it’s not something separate but a part of him.

There are other memories, that smell of warmth, from his life before. They hurt too, but in a different way, in a way that makes Bucky want to chase them with an ache in his heart and a name on his lips, shapeless figures disappearing from view. 

Right now, there’s a memory he keeps trying to pull at, as he sits outside the meeting room in the New Avengers Facility. The compound suffocates him, with its grey lines and bright screens, soldiers in black running through drills in a courtyard below, visible from the wall to wall window Bucky sits behind. He stares at his hands, one soft flesh, the other unyielding metal; stares through them as he tries to remember. Through the fog, he can make out the sound of jingling pennies, and there’s a feel of a jar in his hand. There’s someone in front of him, and he knows that the Bucky from before is telling them something to do with money being saved up, and finally being able to go somewhere. The person in front of him is talking, muffled and distorted, but Bucky can make out the words ‘Coney Island’. He’s sure there are other memories to do with those words, but he doesn’t want to remember them now. The person in front of him smiles, and Bucky’s shoulders slumps as they come into view, skinny limbed and wispy blond hair. 

“Thank you, Buck,” Apparition Steve whispers, and Bucky files this memory away as one of the good ones. It must be, if Steve is in it.

The meeting hall doors swing open, and Bucky stares up at Steve, who watches with a tight jaw as a SHIELD colleague walks past with a binder. Bucky’s binder, full of notes about him and the mess that is his brain. Steve looks startled at Bucky’s gaze, mustering a small smile. Bucky frowns at that, head still hurting from the memory. Steve now looks different, he knows this. He remembers this Steve in the dirt outside a tent behind enemy lines, in the smoke from a sidewalk in Washington. The two Steves are different but the same, hair still blond, eyes still a familiar and comforting blue. Bucky stands as Steve approaches, one hand rubbing the muscles of his neck.

“So um, if you still want to come back with me, they said it’s fine,” Steve starts, eyes flickering from the floor to Bucky’s face. Bucky can tell he’s nervous, which he understands. He’s still volatile, still dangerous. He should be kept here, where it’s safer to contain him, where he could hurt less people. He’s not quite sure why he insisted himself that he stayed with Steve.

Bucky nods, picking his duffel bag from the floor. He hesitates, turning to Steve. “Are you okay with it?”

Steve blinks. “Am I—why wouldn’t I be? Of course I’m okay with it, it’s you. I-I mean, I would do it for anyone. Not that you’re just anyone!” Steve begins to correct himself, cheeks pink, and something in Bucky claws at his chest, aching yet warm. It tells him this, this is why you asked. 

He’s still not sure what that means, but the feeling hurts, so Bucky straightens, gesturing for Steve to start heading out. Steve stops his rambling, giving a sheepish smile and heading towards the exit, Bucky following close behind. The fog causes him to get stuck sometimes, like now, watching Steve’s shoulders shift under his shirt, the label sticking out on the back of his neck. Bucky is so distracted by it all he doesn’t realise they’re in the car until it’s rumbling underneath him, the facility disappearing in the rearview mirror. Steve glances over from the driver’s seat as Bucky shifts to refocus his bearings. 

“The house isn’t that far from here. It’ll be a quick ride,” Steve assures him, eyes turning back to the road. Bucky doesn’t reply; silence has always been something to slip into. He’s used to it; being alone in his missions, alone in his cell. This silence is different, being this close to Steve, he can hear the drum of Steve’s fingers against the steering wheel, his breathing soft and full. It’s different but it’s comforting, and Bucky would fall asleep if he wasn’t busy mapping out their route, committing it to memory. Just in case. 

The car rolls onto a street lined with similar houses, all white picket fences and pastel walls. It’s a dreamy suburbia, the kind found in glossy pages of magazines, magazines Bucky remembers paging through on a brown carpet with a smaller girl that looks remarkably like him, a promise made for the future. Bucky blinks, and the car is parked in front of a sensibly sized colonial, the exterior a pale blue with white decor, and a matching porch lined with shrubs. 

Inside it’s sparsely furnished, and gives off a just bought atmosphere, couch not worn in yet and cupboards unopened. Steve stands to Bucky’s side, shifting on his feet before gesturing to the stairs. “There’s a room upstairs for you, on the left. Do you...need any help with your stuff?”

“No,” Bucky replies. He’s not quite sure how to embellish it, knows he shouldn’t leave it at that, but he can’t find anything else to say. Anything that would sound right, anyways. Steve’s smile falters slightly, but he nods quickly, hands in his pockets. Bucky doesn’t want to see Steve flounder around him and his stoic ways, doesn’t want Steve to be reminded more of who Bucky is and isn’t. So he heads towards the stairs, intent on retreating to his room and staying there, just until he can sort his words. 

Steve makes it hard, the first few days. He’s in the kitchen when Bucky wakes, offering a plate of breakfast with a small smile. At first he asks Bucky what he plans on doing for the day, but Bucky finds himself trying too hard to find the words, grasping for them like smoke in his mind. He knows why he’s nervous, staying in his room instead of walking around Steve’s presence: his body isn’t used to living like this, with no one to watch out for behind his shoulder, no weapon moulding to the fit of his hand. He’s not used to homemade food and wearing sweatpants instead of kevlar. He’s not used to his mind being so quiet. 

Bucky finds ways to pass the time. He runs in the mornings, rising earlier than Steve to avoid the disappointment in his eyes as he forgoes sitting with him for breakfast. He takes up chores around the house, putting out the laundry to dry and wiping windows down. The kitchen is what he avoids the most, a dull taste in his mouth when he watches Steve hold the knives during cooking. It’s nice, watching Steve from afar, standing in the garden or seated on the couch. He knows Bucky’s watching him, because Bucky doesn’t hide it, and he likes how Steve continues regardless, how his movements seem gentle and undisturbed, unlike the man Bucky fought in a ship falling from the sky. Bucky looks down at his own hands, and wishes he could find his own peace, in this quiet corner of the world.

He remembers HYDRA stationing him in Naples once, how he stood under the sun till his skin burned like the hot earth under him, how that hot earth melted and moulded between his fingertips as he posed as an apprentice to a potter. All for the sake of being positioned in the right place at the right time, for his place to never be questioned. Bucky can’t remember who he killed, and he was never told why, but he does remember the heat against his back, and the cool clay moulding between his fingers, the hours he’d spend perfecting one plate.

Steve has a work trip, at the end of their first week living together—although Bucky isn’t sure he can call it that: it’s more living separately in the same space—and Bucky lies in his bed listening to the car drive out the porch. He knows what a work trip means for Steve, knows the danger it entails, but forgoes the itch at the back of his brain, a tug of unwarranted feelings that tell him to go downstairs and say goodbye. It would only make Steve more uncomfortable, Bucky insists, because it’s not his place, not this version of him anyways.

Bucky leaves after the quiet is too long, too loud, and he heads out. Sam had offered him a place for counselling, some VA center that wasn’t far from his house. Bucky keeps his hair tucked in a cap and his arm in a long sleeved shirt and glove, despite the burn of the summer heat. He’s sweaty when he arrives, but it doesn’t bother him. He finds Sam pretty easily, talking in the hallway with an elderly couple, the woman of the pair patting Sam’s elbow. He waves them off, hands shoving in his pocket as he turns, movements smooth with ease. Bucky can tell his own stance is different, too harsh, too unfriendly, and tries to loosen his tight limbs.

“Buck!” Sam greets warmly, raising a hand as a greeting. “You here for a session?”

Bucky shakes his head. “I need a driver.”

Sam is curious, Bucky can tell, but he shrugs carelessly, taking his car keys and spinning them in his hand. He doesn’t ask questions when they reach the homeware store, following Bucky silently with a trolley as he peers at equipment and paints. Bucky feels a little guilty, forcing Sam here, so he decides to ask questions about Sam’s day out of courtesy. He doesn’t plan on really taking in the information, but Sam’s stories are interesting, and Bucky smiles at his impressions of a few of the ‘old timers’. He admires Sam not caring that they’re in a public setting as he talks, and wishes his own words could flow easily like Sam's do. Bucky answers Sam’s questions in small, jilted sentences, but Sam doesn’t seem to mind, listening intently.

By the time they get back to the house the mood is lighter, and Bucky feels less of a burden. He’s glad Sam invites himself to help with tidying up the outdoor studio, setting up a workplace with a space for the kiln they ordered, which would come in a few days. Sam even promised to come over and help set that up too, and by they finished quicker than Bucky would have on his own, Sam sitting on one of the stools and rolling his shoulders.

“You don’t have any beers in the house?” He asks, stretching out his arms.

Bucky shrugs. “Doesn’t affect us. And I...haven’t been in the kitchen.”

Sam scoffs, shaking his head. “Just had to have supersoldiers as friends, didn’t I?”

“Are we? Friends?” Bucky blinks, tilting his head.

“I sure hope I’m not a construction worker after all this work,” Sam huffs, looking around the space. “You know what you’re gonna make?”

“Not sure,” Bucky hums. “I don’t even know if I remember how.”

Sam shrugs, then jumps to his feet. Bucky wishes he could be that laid back, all shrugs and casual smiles. “Hey, you should come to the VA this weekend. Got a fantasy football game starting, and it’s super intense. You could use some education on who’s who these days.”

Bucky surprises himself by nodding. He’s not used to people yet, but the veterans at the center don’t scare him as much as everyone else. They’re just like him, been through the same wars, quite literally in some cases. They understand him, and he likes listening to them talk at the sessions Sam holds. 

So he does walk over on the weekend, and the rest of next week too, meeting his counsellor there instead of the facility with its cold walls and emptiness. Here Bucky has friends, at least he thinks he does, nodding at Jumping Jim as he passes, an ex Navy officer in his fifties, who salutes him as he walks past, a mischievous grin gracing his wrinkles. They’ve all got nicknames here: Hattie’s Bill, the other half of the pair Bucky had seen with Sam before, who’s never seen without his wife; Lenny on Wheels, who always lets his grandchildren ride on the back of his motorised wheelchair, the twins Darcy and Denise, who are called Doll One and Two by Fernidand the Flirt. Ferdinand is the one who gave Bucky his nickname, Lucky, because of his apparent good looks and youth. Darcy says he also looks like a typical American shepherd dog, but he doesn’t see it. They invite him to their small circle of chairs outside where they play pinochle, or in front of the large whiteboard where they’ve scrawled their fantasy football leagues, or in the cafeteria where they’ve got a potluck going. In the span of a week Bucky finds comfort in all these places, in the stories these characters tell, in how familiar they become.

Sam usually drives Bucky home, and stays a few hours perusing through the fridge, filling it up with food for Bucky, who still refuses to cook. It’s nice to be distracted for a while, before the emptiness of the house returns. He spends as much time as he can perfecting the studio outside, only crawling to his room when he knows his body can’t take it anymore, mind still awake despite the exhaustion. He stops by Steve’s room beforehand, looking out of the window, tracing the spines of the books on the shelf. In one of the drawers there are a bundle of papers with sketches on them, but he doesn’t look through it, out of courtesy. 

His hands smooth over the duvet of Steve’s bed, pulled taut and under the pillows, untouched for days. Bucky sits on the bed, and wonders if he misses Steve. He does miss the sound of another person in the house, even if it did set him on edge. Alone, his senses feel fuzzy, and he finds himself staring at the space of the kitchen Steve occupies, or his side of the couch, the pillow still indented with how Steve props it under his elbow as he reads. He remembers being strapped to a chair in darkness, Steve bursting through like a sunrise over the top of a tree, dousing him in light and relief. He had never thought he’d see Steve again, and again after those years with HYDRA, and again after pulling him out of the lake and disappearing into the morning frost. He remembers Steve hugging him that first time, pulling Bucky up from the makeshift bed in the camp’s infirmary, how he smelled of sweat and an earthy, sweet scent.

Bucky doesn’t realise he’s hugging Steve’s pillow until he’s brought out of that memory, nose pressed into its softness. He pulls it away immediately, standing up and shaking his head, a full bodied tremor in his muscles. His skin feels hot with shame, stomach twisting and fluttering, and he slips out of the room quickly, closing the door behind him.

He’s distracted the next day at the VA center, fumbling with his cards and staring out of the window. That clawing in his chest, the one that’s been acting up since he moved in with Steve, is hard to ignore, and as much as it hurts he can’t bring himself to dispel it. It makes him think of Steve’s scent, his knuckles around the steering wheel of his car, his smile each time he offers Bucky a glass of orange juice. 

“And I—Lucky, are you even listening?” Jim’s voice calls out, and Bucky blinks, turning to the elder man as they sit in the garden, watching a game of bocce. He laughs, slapping his hands on his knees. “Boy, you got a lover overseas or something? Poor fella.”

“No,” Bucky says, maybe a bit too quickly, because Jim laughs again, but doesn’t inquire any further.

“As I was saying, I got a friend who might be interested in your pottery. Saw that vase you made for my Leslie, and said it’d really help spruce up his shop. Name’s Al, I can make him give you a call if you need.”

“I don’t have a phone,” Bucky points out, frowning. 

“Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out for him, Jimmy,” Sam declares from the deckchair he’s sat in, nursing a glass of whiskey as he watches the game with sunglasses. “I need a new one too, so we might as well get one together.”

“Aren’t ya supposed to be working, boy?” Jim frowns at Sam, who shrugs, unearthing a beer can and tossing it to him.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Sam winks, laughing as Jim grumbles, but opens the can anyways.

Bucky walks home after the game, seeing Sam hitching a ride with a girl on a motorcycle, clapping Bucky on the back with a promise to meet up later. The sky darkens as he walks, and he’s struck by how familiar the streets look even now cloaked in the night, how his feet have ingrained the memory of his steps. New memories over the old. Bucky had once asked his counsellor if it would ruin him, to make new memories when the ones he had were broken, fragments in a fog. She had told him she didn’t believe they were broken if they could be found, and that some memories may not be mended, but can still be saved. He had a journal under his pillow in his room, and wrote down those words each night.

The first thing he notices, as he reaches the house, is that Steve’s car is in the driveway. The second thing he notices is that clawing feeling disappear upon seeing it. The third, is that the door’s been left open.

Bucky steps inside, closing the door as silently as he walks down the hallway, fingers clenched into fists. There’s a bag of groceries in the kitchen, its contents spilling out on the counter. The quiet thrums in his bones, and he considers finding a weapon in the kitchen before a thumping sound resounds from above and Bucky springs into action, sprinting up the stairs and heading for the source of the sound, pushing Steve’s bedroom door open.

Steve kneels on the floor of the adjoining bathroom, cursing as he attempts to fix the toilet roll rack back in place. He’s dressed in sweatpants and a Stark Industries sweatshirt, and there’s a plaster on his palm, but it’s Steve, dusting himself off as he stands and freezing as he catches Bucky in the doorway.

“Ah, I was wondering when you came back. Sam told me you were at the VA center, when I got back here, so I stopped by to get some stuff for dinner.” Steve holds his hand out, grinning sheepishly. “Got myself a cut from a pineapple, can you imagine?”

Bucky blinks, the thrum under his skin disappearing. He stares at Steve, metal fingers digging into metal, unable to move, afraid that if he does he’ll do something that he’ll regret. Like...like—

“You alright, Buck?” Steve frowns, retracting his hand from between them. 

“The door was open,” Bucky says. “I thought—” He stops, feeling himself burn with embarrassment again.

Steve’s eyes soften, and he takes a step forward. “Buck—”

Bucky leaves, which feels wrong. Somewhere in the back of his mind, something wanted him to stay and hear what Steve had to say. Bucky sighs as he reaches his own room, closing the door shut behind him. If Steve knocks, he thinks he’ll climb out of the window. Steve hadn’t needed protection, he was capable of looking after himself. He didn’t need Bucky, and yet...Bucky can remember when he did, jumping into a fight between Steve and a pack of bullies, wiping blood from Steve’s ear with his sleeve, holding him up with an arm around his waist. 

He remembers the thrum under his skin then, and the thrum under his skin just moments ago, that weightless feeling after seeing Steve was alright. It felt like how Sam looked, easy-going and unburdened. It would help, Bucky thinks, if he could feel like that all the time.

When he heads back downstairs, he nods at Steve’s smile of a greeting, who seems a little startled at the reciprocation. Bucky pays no heed, watching Steve work, the door now carefully locked. That must be what that clawing feeling is, Bucky ponders, a memory of him wanting to protect Steve. It doesn’t hurt as much watching Steve, chewing his bottom lip as he concentrates on the stove in front of him. Steve might not need protecting, but Bucky needs to protect him. It’s what the old him would have done, and it’s what present him wants to do. Steve mattered to him before, and he matters now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to shed a little light on bucky's pov which takes place just before chapter 1, and also hope it clears up why he takes up pottery? this wasn't part of my original plan but i lost some inspiration for this and this chapter really helped.   
> i know i said tuesday so this is two days late :( and the next update also be on thursday, mainly because i'm starting uni again next week so i'm gonna be a little busy.


End file.
